


Stone by Stone

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Boy Dean Winchester, Barebacking, Blackmail, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Comeplay, Coming Untouched, Dark, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Dean, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Dean, Possessive Sex, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rimming, Rough Sex, Stalking, Student Dean Winchester, Table Sex, Teacher Castiel, Top Dean, Voyeurism, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 21:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Charles Bukowski once said: “Find what you love and let it kill you.”Castiel always did take things too literally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been forever since I've written anything that didn't involve a case citation and I just had this idea and wanted to write something fun (I say 'fun', as usual it's a little dark).  
> Please forgive me for starting something new again without finishing up my others. I will get around to them eventually.
> 
> For those waiting on an update of Straight to You, firstly thank you for your patience, secondly I'm just adding the finishing touches to chapter 3, so it should be up soon.
> 
> The title for this (like nearly all of my works) is taken from a song. This time it's Stein um Stein by Rammstein. If you're interested in finding out the direction this fic is going in, google the lyrics.
> 
> Also, please excuse any grammar errors/accidental Britishisms. I'm a little rusty! I'll sort it through editing when the whole thing is posted.

By the time Castiel is twenty five, his life is made. A career rather than just a job, a nice house, a husband with a personality, healthy libido and a big...paycheck. 

 

Really, what more could he ask for? 

 

By the time Castiel turns thirty, he still has two out of three of those things. Which, according to Meatloaf, ain't bad.

 

Maybe he should have asked for a husband with a slightly less healthy libido though, because he's pretty sure that fucking the secretary is such a cliche that he would’ve laughed if he hadn't cried into his perfectly made potato salad. 

 

_ “We’re both to blame Cassie,”  _ soon devolved into, _ “if you weren’t such an ice-queen, then I wouldn’t have to fuck Kirsten”, _ which then became the hunter green wall of their dining room wearing the now-too-salty-potato salad.

 

Castiel doesn’t even like potato fucking salad.

 

***

 

“Don’t you fuckin’ do it, Castiel. Don’t you even think about it.”

 

Castiel stares down at his phone, glassy eyed and bone tired. He’s not considering it, he’s  _ not _ .

 

But.

 

If he  _ were  _ considering meeting Balthazar for a drink tonight like his text suggests (with a leery winky emoji), then Castiel would be well within his rights to do so. After all, they’re still married, still bound by vows uttered in complete faith (and painful naivete) much to his brother’s chagrin. 

 

“He’s still my husband, Gabriel.” Castiel points out, a tiny pinprick of annoyance aimed to settle in the skin, to drip a little more blood in the water. He catches his brother’s theatrical over-the-top shudder out of the corner of his eye and feels just a tiny bit triumphant. A win amongst the losses of the last six months.

 

“Yeah. And why is that, hmm?” Gabriel writes a ‘D-’ in bright red at the top of another paper and tosses it onto the pile on the floor. He caps the pen and points it at Castiel, aggressive gesture matching his tone, “I’ll tell you why. Because you’re a goddamn doormat, dear little brother of mine.” 

 

“That’s not it.”

 

At least not all of it. Maybe sixty per cent. Perhaps sixty-five.

 

With a sigh that does little to convey any real feeling on the matter, Castiel locks his phone without replying to Balthazar and drops it on top of his own stack of marking. “We were good together.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel mutters, eyeing Castiel with no small amount of scepticism, “So good that he felt the need to invite half of his office in on it. Just without your knowledge.”

 

***

 

It’s shortly after midnight when Castiel lets himself into the house that he and Balthazar used to share, alone. He’s long since changed the color of the walls, but not the layout of the furniture, nor the locks on the doors. Sort of moving on superficially without actually moving on. Like painting over the cracks to keep up appearances or some shit.

 

_ Deep. _

 

He giggles to himself, a little tipsy as he bumps against the bedroom door frame with his shoulder. Whatever alcoholic shit Gabriel had been pouring down Castiel’s throat like it was the cure for all ailments, tasted pretty good on the way down. Probably won’t be so good on the way back up.

 

He stumbles a little on his way to the en suite bathroom, managing to catch himself against the window sill. He holds on like his life depends on it, waiting for the room to slow the spin like he’s a girl on a first date in an 80s movie. 

 

A depressing one person waltz.

 

Hm. Maybe he should finally divorce Balthazar. It’s not like this bizarre push-pull thing that they have going on is doing either of them any good. But, as much as Castiel hates it, he needs it too. There’s a sort of power in it that affords Castiel the feeling of being in control, even if he isn’t. Balthazar is clearly a cheating fucktard, but Castiel has the upper hand here and it’s hard to come down off his high horse, especially when the sight of Balthazar on his knees is  _ such _ a pretty one.

 

Speaking of pretty sights…

 

The three bedroom family home next door had sat empty for around three months; unoccupied ever since the Peston’s and their menagerie of yappy dogs and fluffy cats vacated under a possession order. 

 

That was until about a week ago when the Winchesters had moved in. Typical-gruff-Dad John and his two sons, Sam and Dean. They seem pleasant enough from Castiel’s brief encounters of welcoming them to the neighbourhood with pie and a couple of wordless acknowledgements as he and John got in their respective cars to go to work.

 

Pleasant is relative though.

 

For instance, the younger Winchester, Sam is perfectly pleasant in a typical fourteen year old kind of way; kind eyes and a brief sticky smile aimed in Castiel’s direction before he’d tipped his head back to funnel skittles into his mouth with the kind of fervor reserved for those too young to worry about heart disease. Nice, charming teenager.

 

The older brother though, Dean. There’s nothing  _ nice  _ about Dean Winchester.

 

Cliched in the way that all the best things are (if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it), Dean is a typical bad boy; leather jacket, shiny muscle car, cool aloofness, and strikingly handsome features that ensure girlish giggles and wide eyes blinking up from behind honeyed eyelashes wherever he goes.

 

Their first (and only) meeting is etched into Castiel’s psyche forever, a digital film reel that can never be deleted, simply replayed over and over again without the worry of wearing out the celluloid.

Home-baked apple pie in hand, Castiel had pressed the doorbell, lighting it up orange behind white, welcoming smile pasted on, fully expecting a flustered, perfectly bland mother or father to answer, accept the pie with thanks, exchange a few pleasantries and then Castiel could be on his merry way.

 

As with everything in Castiel’s life, his expectations were shot to shit.

 

Instead, the door had swung inwards to reveal a young man in a grayed out Led Zeppelin t-shirt and soft, dark jeans, with an undeniably handsome face and striking green eyes that sparkled with irresistible charm and  _ something else _ as those perfect lips had twitched into a smile… something that had made Castiel uncomfortably hot under the collar of his starched work shirt. 

 

No, there’s nothing  _ nice  _ about Dean Winchester.

 

Jesus. H. Christ.

 

It’s a wonder that Castiel made it out of the conversation alive let alone managing to both not stumble over his words and to actually find any at all.

 

It sounds thoroughly pathetic - and it undoubtedly is - but in fairness to Castiel’s dignity,  _ pretty  _ is quite possibly the biggest understatement of the century. Dean Winchester is fucking gorgeous. Like, almost have to perform a comical double take just to make sure you’re not seeing things gorgeous. Like, ‘Take my Breath Away’ playing in the background, whilst everyone stops to stare gorgeous. Like, get down on your fucking knees and wrap your mouth around my dick now gorgeous. 

 

So Castiel can’t be blamed now when he catches sight of the aforementioned beautiful human through his bedroom window, which just happens to be opposite Castiel’s, and freezes, instantaneously rendered immobile, and simply stares, white knuckling the sill, knees weak for reasons that aren’t entirely alcohol related.

 

Tall and broad shouldered, Dean is framed by the room’s soft lighting, casting a sort of satiny glow over every line and ridge of his naked torso, highlighting the sharp cut of his hipbones, his flawless tan skin standing out in sharp relief to his shadow; a beautiful dark parody of the actual flesh and bone perfection, muscles in his lean stomach and arms pulled taut as he stretches. Yawns with a mouth so full and pink, those perfect lips visible even from this distance.

 

Balthazar  _ who? _

 

As Dean turns his way, Castiel holds his breath, only aware of the steady throb of his heartbeat through his dick. 

 

He’s thankful that he had the foresight to leave the light off, so there’s no way that Dean can  _ actually  _ see him, but still. Well not physically at least. There had been something behind those green eyes during their first meeting; like he’d seen more of Castiel than what he’d been looking at. 

 

Standing there in the dark, half hidden behind the hideous linen curtains Balthazar had picked out, Castiel inexplicably feels exposed all over again. 

 

It’s a sensation that certainly isn’t helped when Dean winks salaciously in Castiel’s direction, provocative and deliberate, before turning out the light, dropping the room into total blackness, leaving Castiel staring at nothing but his own open-mouthed, pink-cheeked reflection.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for the support :)

Dean Winchester is gonna be the death of Castiel. 

And not just the sweet release type either. No, his death at the hands of Dean will be bloody and violent, a veritable Tarantino of a death, all exploding organs and blood splattering over every surface.

It's not like Dean is even oblivious to Castiel’s coronary waiting to happen. Just the opposite. He seems to actively encourage Castiel’s early demise.

In the week following the bedroom window incident, Castiel is constantly bombarded by Dean, Dean,  _ Dean _ .

_Dean_ working on his monster car; head ducked under the hood, smooth, powerful muscles moving fluidly beneath his stretched out tank top, a tear in it splitting so far down one side that it’s almost pointless wearing the damn thing.

 _Dean_ appearing on Castiel’s doorstep one morning to deliver a piece of mail that had gotten mixed in with the Winchesters’; looking radiant and pure and alive, and all the things Castiel hadn’t felt standing there in his crumpled pajama pants, crusted sleep in the corners of his eyes.

_Dean_ climbing out of Castiel’s pool, every inch the male equivalent of Phoebe Cates in  _ Fast Times _ , water sluicing over miles of toned skin, while Castiel had gaped on from the kitchen window like a horny… well, teenager.

(To be fair, the last one is on him - offering the use of his pool to the younger Winchester was unlikely not to result in the elder coming over too).

Synchronicity, Jung called it.

Punishment, Castiel calls it.

For what, he isn’t exactly sure. Maybe in an alternate universe he’s a total dick or something.

Long story short, Castiel’s life has become a never-ending diet coke commercial (or the beginnings of a cheesy porno, depending on who you ask).

Though, at night with the curtains drawn (because,  _ seriously  _ \- he’s the voyeur, not the voyee here), heart hammering against his ribcage, sweat prickling at his temples, and the physical evidence of yet another Dean-related orgasm coating the webbing of his fingers, he figures that the latter may not be so far off.

He’s absolutely, entirely one hundred percent certain that it can’t possibly get any better-worse than this, because if it does, the remainder of his sanity is going to fray completely away until the final thread snaps and he’s left a drooling mess.

Which, in all fairness wouldn’t be a noticeable departure from his current state.

Of course, Gabriel thinks that it’s all in Castiel’s head, because really, what attractive, young man (young being the keyword here, because he’s a  _ teenager, _ and Castiel is going to Hell because not even that discovery was enough to deter him from fucking his fist to the vision of green eyes and freckles later that same night) would be interested in a boring, frumpy high school English teacher like Castiel? (Not Gabriel’s actual words, but Castiel has never needed anyone else’s help to do himself down. It’s a skill.)

It’s not until Castiel comes home one afternoon to find Dean and Sam sitting on their porch, drinking lemonade, and his gaze skips completely over Sam and his enthusiastic wave, instead locking straight onto Dean and his full, pink lips as they curl into a scheming smirk, that Castiel realizes just how fucked he truly is.

As the adult in this situation, he’s going to have to do something about this. Before it really gets going.

He’ll get right on that -

Dean’s smile widens as if he knows what Castiel is thinking, completely aware of his own sexuality and exactly how it affects perverted old men like Castiel.

\- first thing in the morning.

 

***

 

Needless to say, another week passes - much the same as the first - without Castiel adulting up and saying something to Dean to stop this madness. Instead, in what Castiel will later come to name as operation Out of the Frying Pan, he decides to finally give in to Balthazar’s offer of a drink. It’s a bad idea - not the worst one he’s had of late, clearly, but it’s still up there with his ninth grade decision to ride his bike into a lake - but he needs the normality, relative though it is.

Dean and Sam are sitting on their porch again when Castiel’s locking his front door, heads bowed together as they discuss something in low hushed voices. Luckily, they don’t see him as he rushes to the taxi idling on the curb.

 

***

 

Castiel’s pretty sure that Balthazar wasn’t an asshole when he married him. Love may well be blind, but it would have had to be deaf and dumb too.

They’re at a bar downtown - Balthazar’s choice - and it’s every bit as pretentious as Castiel had feared it would be when he finally gave his husband the yes that he’d been pressing for over the last few weeks.

Gabriel is gonna lose his shit when he finds out.

High school sweethearts, Castiel has never loved anyone else - had never even considered anyone else other than the man that he’s spent almost half of his life with. Which is one of the many complex reasons why it’s so hard to let go.

Even though it’s as clear as the mountain spring water that his husband has ordered ‘for the table’ that Balthazar is giant asshole.

‘For the table’, what does that even mean?

Whilst Balthazar continues on flirting with the bartender right in front of him, Castiel shoots off a quick text to Gabriel, phone held low under the bar, thumbs tapping swiftly on the screen. He’s not sure how the kids in his class think that staring down at your lap with deep concentration/a great big goofy grin on your face is any less conspicuous that simply holding your phone above the desk and brazenly typing out a text, but yet here he is, pulling the same thing.

 

_\- Was B always this much of a dick?_

 

 

The return buzz is almost instantaneous, coming just as Castiel takes a swig of his beer. (Which is actually a Craft ale that Balthazar had ordered for him, far too enthused over how much Castiel would love it. He doesn’t, it just tastes like a standard beer.)

 

_\- Yes._

 

 

Well that clears that up then.

“- it’s nice this time of the year. And I know I promised you we’d go and - “

Castiel looks up then, realising that he’s finally being spoken  _ to.  _ Balthazar has turned to face him now, leaning against the bar, the V of his gray shirt far too deep for someone half his age to pull off.

Castiel blinks, slides his phone into the ass pocket of his jeans, has to shift slightly on the barstool to do so. “Sorry, what?”

Balthazar’s brow creases, marring his usually handsome face. “You weren’t listening to a damn word I said, were you Cassie?”

Which is a little rich coming from Balthazar, but he lets that annoyance slide in order to make room for the familiar bloom of irritation that being called ‘Cassie’ brings.

However, Balthazar either doesn’t notice or care (it could be either at this point) about the change in Castiel’s demeanor, simply barrells on regardless (and isn’t that just an apt allegory for their entire relationship), “Is this just a joke to you Castiel?”

Well, yes, frankly. Because what about this isn’t a fucking joke?

He doesn’t say that though, instead opting for the safer, less confrontational, “Is what a joke to me?”

“This.” Balthazar gestures between them. “Us.”

Castiel wants to laugh, barely refrains from doing so. “There hasn’t been an ‘us’ since you fucked your secretary.”

Balthazar looks genuinely taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting it to be mentioned, like he hadn’t ripped out Castiel’s still-beating heart when he’d told him, “Well then what the fuck are we doing here?”

Castiel has been wondering the same thing, actually.

“You’re supposed to be trying to make amends, you know, working on things. Though, the only thing you seem to be working on is the best way into the barmaid’s panties!”

Balthazar leans forward into Castiel’s space, hard and menacing, “Well I wouldn't have to look elsewhere if my husband would fucking touch me!”

Un-fucking-believable. Though, is it, really? It’s not the first time that Balthazar has used this twist of logic to blame Castiel for the demise of their marriage.

It  _ is _ the first time Castiel’s given him the real reason why he started lying about headaches and begging off blowjobs though, “Oh seriously, just fuck off Balthazar. I stopped sleeping with you because you’re a shitty lay! It wasn’t worth the fucking effort!”

And with that little truth bomb delivered with all the decorum he’s come to expect from himself recently, he gathers up his coat and slides off the barstool and right into Balthazar’s space; the two of them so close now that he can feel the solid warmth of him pressed up against Castiel in all the wrong ways. “All I can say is that I hope you were fucking Kirsty -  _ or whatever the fuck her name is _ \- on the clock, because I’m pretty certain that it’s the only way it would have been worth her goddamn time.” He gives his husband a disgusted once-over. “You’re sure as shit not worth any of mine anymore.”

And then he’s getting the hell out of there without waiting for either Balthazar’s stuttered response or the moral high ground to slip out from beneath his own feet.

God, that felt good.

Better in fact, than a lifetime’s worth of sex from Balthazar.

  
  


***

 

The next morning, he’s feeling a little remorseful for his very public outburst, but not enough to actually call up Balthazar and apologize. Knowing just how contrary Balthazar is though, it’s possible that he almost enjoyed Castiel’s little rant last night - probably saw it as a goddamned challenge. Either way, he’ll be in touch.

Balthazar’s perverse nature aside, Castiel’s got enough on his plate; it’s barely even nine and he’s already spilled coffee down his shirt, burnt the toast and stubbed his toe on one of the heavy dining chairs.

And now the garage door is just the final straw. It’s halfway open, having stopped mid-operation for some inexplicable reason.

“For fuck’s sake.” He mutters, jamming his finger into the button, as if pressing it harder and more often is somehow going to force the motor to realize the error of its ways and suddenly work. “God fucking dammit!” He slams his fist onto the panel.

Still nothing. Surprisingly.

Castiel stands there, frazzled and sweating lightly, wondering what the fuck he’s going to do. He was supposed to be at the school for a meeting five minutes ago.

“You okay there, Mr Novak?”

It’s Dean’s voice. And then it’s Dean’s body too as he ducks easily under the garage door, movements fluid and agile. He’s covered in grease; smears across the tight white tank he’s wearing, hard, graceful lines of his body visible under the soft cotton. There’s a smudge across the angle of his right cheekbone.

Goddamn.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel forces a smile, hopes that Dean doesn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice, or if he does, simply puts it down to stress (which isn’t that far from the truth, really). He gestures loosely (and needlessly) to the garage door, not high enough for his coupé to even hope to scrape through. Not high enough for anyone to be able to see much from the sidewalk either.

A not entirely helpful thought.

“I’m… err... having a bit of trouble.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” There’s nothing but pure amusement in the quirk of Dean’s lips, eyes glittering mischievously. “And hear, too. Had to cover poor Sammy’s ears.”

The back of Castiel’s neck goes hot in sudden embarrassment. “Shit, sorry.”

Dean looks like he’s about to burst out into laughter. “It’s okay; pretty sure he’s heard worse coming out of my mouth.”

As if by magic, Castiel is drawn to said mouth in all its indecent glory. Fuck.

Dean takes a cautious step closer. Stops a couple of feet away, unsure, pulling his bottom lip between perfect white teeth, and yeah, that’s not helping.

Castiel exhales shakily as he tears his eyes away. “It was um, it was working. Then it just stopped? It was fine yesterday.” It comes out as a mostly incoherent ramble, but Dean seems to understand enough of it, because he’s nodding, chewing on his lower lip as he listens.

“Do you want me to take a look? It’s probably something simple. These things usually are.”

In Castiel’s experience, nothing is simple.

“Sure.”

No sooner has Castiel given his assent, then Dean’s moving closer, more purposefully this time, deliberately  _ not  _ brushing up against Castiel to reach for the stepladder, stacked and folded against some half-filled paint tins. The same paint Castiel had used to cover over the hideous green in the dining room.

Castiel tries to concentrate on those tins, because he’s not sure he can watch Dean stretching up towards the mechanism, tank riding up the muscles of his stomach, blondish happy trail moving in the opposite direction, down below the waistband of his jeans, sharp hip bones right there,  _ right fucking there _ .

And yet he does.

This is so wrong.

But oh so goddamn right.

“It’s the clutch.” Dean says after a couple of minutes, looking down at Castiel from the second step of the ladder. “I can get a new one from the hardware store if you want. Install it whenever’s okay for you.”

“Oh..uhm, yeah. That’d be great. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean flashes a blinding smile as he climbs down. “It’s no trouble, Mr Novak. I’m pretty good with my hands.” He strums his fingers once on the the tallest step of the ladder, and Castiel’s eyes follow the movement.

Seriously, this is one step away from Dean asking if Castiel needs his plumbing fixing.

And Castiel’s one step away from taking him up on the non-existent offer. Dean smells so good; motor oil and coffee and the underlying scent of the outdoors, and being this close is seriously  _ not helping. _

Dean’s smile slips sideways as he notices Castiel’s briefcase on the front passenger seat. “Oh crap, were you going somewhere important?”

_ Was _ he going somewhere? Importance is relative right now. There’s not much that seems important in comparison to the thought of those beautiful hands touching him. Although that could be because all of the blood that belongs in his brain is currently residing in his dick.

Oh, shit.

“Just to school.” Castiel answers, only half focused on fumbling his phone out his pocket with shaky hands. Gabe’s always late to these things, surely he can swing by.

“Like, college?”

It’s kind of flattering that it’s Dean’s first conclusion.

Castiel doesn’t look up from his phone as he finishes the text, “I teach at Glen View High.”

“Yeah?” Dean sounds pleased. “Sammy and I are heading there when the new school year starts.”

_ Then _ he does look up. “I thought you were eighteen?” He tries for polite curiosity, despite the fact that he’s currently in a DEFCON 2 panic. However, it is having the desirable effect of his blood returning to where it belongs, so there’s that at least.

“I am,” A flush of adorable pink across his cheekbones, “Dad’s moved us around all over the country, and I’ve lost a lot of high school through one thing or another. Had to retake my sophomore year.”

Castiel isn’t really sure what to say to that. It’s kinda shitty that their dad doesn’t think enough of his kids to let them get a damn education? But he doesn’t know their story and it’s not his place to pry. Before Castiel can come up with an acceptable response though, Dean is cutting in with, “Did you have a good time last night?”

Castiel’s getting whiplash from all the sudden twists in this conversation. “Huh?”

“Oh, uh.” Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I saw you leave in a taxi last night? You looked dressed for a night out.”

It seems as though Castiel isn’t the only voyeur here. The thought makes him happier than it should.

“Just went to a bar with my husband.” And then adds, “ _ estranged _ husband.” though he’s not quite sure why. If he’d let Dean think that he was happily married then maybe Dean would stop (what, exactly, Castiel’s not sure. Being so gorgeous? Living next door to him? There’s no realistic outcome here). “But we’re working on a few issues. Seeing how it goes.”

Dean nods thoughtfully, green eyes shining in the low light.  With intensity so sudden and breathtaking that it almost hurts Castiel to be on the receiving end, he says, “Well, whatever he did to lose you, I’m sure he’s regretting it. If you were mine, I'd never let you go.” Then as if he hasn’t just dealt the tattered remnants of Castiel’s self control a mortal blow, adds,  “I’ll come over later to fix the clutch.” And with that, Dean’s leaving, practically swaggering as he goes, all liquid grace and casual danger.

Yep, cause of death: Dean Winchester.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a few things. 
> 
> Firstly, this is the first of two chapters going up today (August 2nd). After a year of zero fanfiction activity, the muse has struck and so I'm gonna squeeze the fuck out of it whilst I can (and also avoid working on my dissertation).
> 
> Secondly, I feel like I should add in a disclaimer, because at the moment he's totally looking like the villain, but I don't hate Balthazar. At all. He was a great character and Seb Roche is an absolute ledge, so yeah, I feel a little bad.
> 
> Thirdly, thank you to everyone leaving kudos and comments. They are appreciated beyond words.
> 
> As usual, please excuse any and all mistakes. They'll be rectified at the end. Probably.

Castiel survives the meeting even though it’s utterly pointless, _ like they always are. _ Gabriel drops him off home after swinging by the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for dinner tonight, with a word of advice that Castiel really needs to take on board.

“No fucking the hot boy next door.”

Yeah.

As Gabriel drives off in his mid-life crisis, Castiel tries (and fails) not to sneak a glance over at the Winchester’s place. The house is quiet; no cars in the driveway, no sign of life.

Castiel releases a breath he didn’t realize that he’d been holding. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see Dean (the exact opposite is true, which is precisely the problem), but he’s not entirely sure how much longer he can hold up against the barrage of sexuality and sheer hotness that is Dean Winchester.

Not sure if he even wants to.

Key in the front door, he twists the lock and shoves his way inside.

No, he can do this. He’s a goddamn adult.

He kicks the door shut and makes his way into the kitchen, depositing the bags on the marble counter top.

If and when Dean shows up to fix the clutch, then Castiel will thank him  _ without _ dropping to his knees. A dinner of steak and potatoes is the perfect way to do that. Maybe invite Sam too. John is away (once again; like he’s ever there) so that’s a whole other level of awkward that Castiel’s thankful not to have to deal with.

Yeah, John Winchester definitely owns at least one shotgun.

No fucking the hot boy next door.

_ Got it. _

  
  


***

  
  


He’s in the middle of peeling the potatoes when the doorbell rings. The digital clock on the oven shows that it’s only coming up to half three. Though Dean didn’t specify a time, for some reason, Castiel had assumed that it would be after five.

Yeah,  _ for some reason _ . The reason being that Castiel keeps forgetting that Dean isn’t eighteen years old and working full time, he’s eighteen years old and _ in school _ .

Something he should be reminding himself of a little more, instead of fantasizing about Dean’s hands and mouth and everything else.

Wiping his damp hands on his stretched out Faith No More shirt, Castiel goes to the door, pulling it open on the chain.

Balthazar. “Hello, darling.”

Fuck’s sake.

Castiel slams the door shut, half intent on keeping it that way, but after a few beats he slides the chain off and reluctantly opens it again. “What?”

Balthazar lifts a wrapped bottle of wine. “Thought we could have a chat.”

Castiel pushes the door wider, leans against the frame, arms crossed. “Pretty sure I said all I needed to last night.”

Balthazar smiles broadly, looking more like the man Castiel had married in that instant, than he has for the last five and a half years. “You certainly left no room for argument. But I’m here because I realize that I’ve been an unbearable prick to you.”

Which is a revelation in and of itself.

Castiel spares a quick glance over at the Winchesters’ drive. Still no monster car parked there. Dean’s probably gonna be out for the rest of the day.

“Fine,” Castiel steps back, allowing Balthazar inside. “You’re not stopping long though.”

 

 

***

  
  


An hour and a half later sees Castiel leaning over the pot of potatoes, giving it a stir as Balthazar sits in ‘his’ seat at the dining table, the sliver of self-awareness he’d come to Castiel with completely gone as he prattles on about nothing, pouring himself another glass of wine. 

It’s almost as if nothing has changed.

It’s almost as if the last seven months haven’t happened and it would be so easy to slip back into this benign little existence where everything is safe and boring and routine.

Except. Things have changed. Everything’s changed and maybe,  _ just maybe _ it’s for the best.

Castiel knows that he’ll likely never be able to forgive Balthazar. He’ll never be able to forget the pain of discovering that the only man (person) he had ever slept with could no longer say the same. The lies, the late nights, the lipstick.

God, such a fucking cliche.

He’d made Castiel look a fool. No regard for his feelings, no regard for Castiel at all.

So there’s no going back, no matter how easy it is. Only forwards.

And if forwards leads him into an illicit tryst with an eighteen year old?

It won’t. _ It won’t. _

  
  


***

 

By the time the doorbell rings again, Castiel is just taking the potatoes over to the sink to drain them. 

Luckily, Balthazar doesn’t take it upon himself to answer the door (could be something to do with the bottle of wine that he’s consumed all by himself), and so Castiel makes his way past, heart fluttering against his ribcage like a trapped bird, as he opens the door wide.

Dean’s standing there on the stoop, leather jacket over a Metallica shirt, dark jeans riding low on those hips that had been close enough for Castiel to lick just a few hours ago.

Yeah, the whole ‘forwards-but-not-into-the-arms-of-his-ridiculously-hot-teenage-neighbor’ thing already isn’t going quite as well as he’d hoped.

“Hello, Mr Novak.”

“Hello, Dean.”

“I’m all finished in the garage. Figured I’d get that done first.”

Castiel desperately wants to ask what the second item on Dean’s to-do list is, but he’s afraid that he already knows the answer.

“That’s great,” Castiel offers shakily. “Thanks Dean. I really appreciate it.” And he does. “I’ve made dinner. Uhm, my way of saying thank you - “

Dean moves closer, right hand resting on the doorframe to the left of Castiel’s head as he leans in, completely invading Castiel’s space and his senses, until he’s close enough for Castiel to count Dean’s lashes, to taste the faint sweetness of spearmint on Dean’s breath, to lick the tiny bead of moisture clinging to the perfect dip of his cupid’s bow, “There’s no need to thank me, Mr Novak. Anytime you need my help. With  _ anything _ . I’ll be there. Just say the words.”

The urge to do something, _ fucking anything _ skitters along Castiel’s nerve endings, electricity crackling just under the surface of his skin, but the most he manages is a shakily exhaled, “fuck,” as he almost buckles under the weight of Dean’s gaze, eyes a dark moss green, swirled with smoldering embers of gold. They stare at one another, frozen in time, neither saying anything and it’s taking every ounce of strength in Castiel’s thigh muscles to keep himself standing upright.

“That’s one of the words I was thinking of, yeah.” Dean jokes, except it clearly isn’t a joke and  _ oh god oh fuck _ , Castiel’s gonna let this man, this  _ teenager _ , do whatever he wants to him right here on the fucking porch in front of the entire street, in front of Mrs Benson and her thirty cats that are always pissing on her geraniums, and he’s never wanted something so badly in his entire life.

“Dean,” Castiel attempts, but it comes out more as a cracked whimper, so he clears his throat, tries to focus on getting through this without dragging Dean inside by the collar of his shirt. Or worse. “I’d like to thank you though.” And oh fuck, he can feel his cheeks heat up as Dean’s lips twitch into that goddamn smirk. “With-with dinner. Uhm. Yeah. Sam too?”

Dean’s expression softens at the mention of his brother. And Castiel absolutely does not fall a little bit further. “That sounds great. Thank you.” It’s honest and appreciative.

Intensity thawed, but not melted completely, Castiel manages to suck in a lungful of air that doesn’t taste like Dean’s skin and forces himself to take a step backwards into the safety of his home. It absolutely is  _ not _ a retreat.

“I’m cooking steak and potatoes.” Castiel offers. It’s all he’s got right now.

Dean pushes himself off the doorframe and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll just go get him, then.” Quick flash of a smile as he backs up a couple of steps, eyes not leaving Castiel’s. “Be right back.” And then he’s gone again.

Stumbling inside, Castiel shuts the door and leans back against it and takes in a few steady, calming breaths.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

Everything about this is a bad (very good) idea.

“Who was that, Cassie?”

Damn. Castiel had forgotten about his semi-sloshed husband.

Dragging his shit together, he ignores the question, instead moving to busy himself in the kitchen, pulling knives and forks out of a drawer. He can do this.

“Balthazar, you need to leave.”

“What. Why?”

“Because I’ve got the neighbors coming over for dinner and you’re not invited.”

Balthazar’s voice is closer when he says, “Might be nice to get to know the new neighbors.” Too close.

Castiel’s pretty certain that they have differing opinions on what ‘getting to know’ the neighbors entails. That aside, Castiel doesn’t like the insinuation.

He doesn’t turn around as he says, “You’re not moving back in.”

“Come on darling, don’t you think you’ve punished me enough now? You’ve thrown your little tantrum, embarrassed me last night. Isn’t it time that you stop this nonsense and allow me back home?”

Balthazar is leaning up against one of the kitchen counters, directly in front of the cupboard where the plates are. Castiel pushes past him to retrieve three, “This isn’t your home.”

“I think you’ll find that it is, Cassie.”

The shit thing is, he’s right.

His name’s still on pretty much everything and short of burying him in the backyard under the petunias, there aren’t many ways of changing that. Even when Castiel does start the divorce proceedings that his brother keeps harping on about, Balthazar will most likely be enough of a fucktard to demand his half of the house, like they can just split it down the fucking middle.

The fact that he feels he’s done Castiel a favor by not claiming the house up until now tells Castiel all he needs to know about where Balthazar stands on the issue of letting go of him with dignity.

i.e., it ain’t happening.

Castiel sighs. Braces his hands against the sink. “Goddammit, Balthazar -”

They’re interrupted by a knock, which is followed by a “Mr Novak?”

Dean’s voice is warm and familiar and an oh so welcome reprieve from Castiel’s husband and his bullshit. There’s a soft click of the front door as it’s closed again.

Castiel glares at Balthazar, as if he can remove the bastard by sheer willpower alone. “I’ll be right out, Dean.”

Sadly, it’s not effective. Balthazar is still standing there, watching Castiel with an unreadable expression.

“Is there anything we can help with?” Dean’s voice grows closer, as do two sets of footsteps on the hardwood floor, “Sammy and I are used to fending for ourselves. We’re pretty adept at the whole food prep thing now.”

Castiel ignores the twinge in his heart at the declaration. “You can lay the table for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

And then Dean appears. Along with Sam, pushing chestnut hair out of his eyes. “Hi, Mr Novak.” He smiles, dimples popping in both cheeks. No doubt he’s gonna be a heartbreaker when he’s older.

“Hi Sam,” Castiel can’t help but return the smile. “Here.” He bundles the cutlery into Sam’s waiting hands. “Dining table is just through there.”

Sam dutifully leaves and Castiel is expecting that Dean will follow. He doesn’t. And the reason for Dean’s apparent desire to stay in the kitchen is made clear when Castiel follows his line of sight. Balthazar.

“Hi.” Dean sticks out his hand. “Dean Winchester. I don’t think we’ve met.”

Balthazar looks down at the proffered hand like it’s covered in scales. “Balthazar Roche.” He says, haughtily, as if the name will mean anything to anyone outside of the business world. He looks Dean up and down once, and then again, and just for good measure adds, “Castiel’s husband.”

Dean pulls back his rejected hand. Slides it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Husband, eh? Interesting how he didn’t take your last name.”

Attention only half on spooning peas onto the plates, Castiel chokes back a laugh. Barely.

Dean doesn’t give Balthazar a chance to respond before he asks, “Are you staying for dinner, Mr Roche?”

“No.” Castiel interrupts. “He’s not. He was just leaving.”

“Oh,” Dean feigns disappointment. “You should stay.”

What.

Dean turns to Castiel then, smiling pleasantly, but his eyes are so dark that they’re almost black under the kitchen lights. “If that’s okay with you, Mr Novak?”

Despite the inevitable disaster that looms hot and heavy like the air before a thunderstorm, Castiel can’t bring himself to say no to Dean. Which doesn’t bode well.

“Better get Sam to lay another place, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly fluffy and unsurprisingly dark.
> 
> I did agonise over whether the last bit was too much too soon, but at least Cas can't say that he wasn't warned. (Similarly, it gives anyone who is here for a fluffy high school story a chance to quit while they're ahead).

“Great food, Mr Novak.” Dean says and licks his lips, his gaze inescapably heated. “Though I’m sure cooking is only one of your great many talents.”

“Uh, thanks Dean.” Castiel croaks, mouth dry. He takes a sip of his wine (from his own cheap stash of bargain stuff - the kind of crap that could easily double as anti-freeze).

Dinner is going about as well as Castiel had anticipated. Balthazar and Dean are locked in some kind of alpha male war; the former dropping ridiculous ‘ _ my husband’ _ s in at every opportunity, the latter taking every available chance to make Castiel squirm in his seat with each new innuendo that comes out of his pretty pretty mouth.

Balthazar jumps on the lull in conversation to do what he does best - be a dick. “So Dean, what is it that you actually  _ do _ ? You can’t just be lying in wait for when my  _ husband  _ needs to be saved like a damsel in distress.”

Which Castiel finds offensive on multiple levels, but says nothing. He’s not touching this - whatever the fuck is happening between Dean and Balthazar - with a ten foot pole.

Seeking an ally, Castiel catches Sam’s hazel eyes across the table and they share a conspiratorial smile as he tucks into the potatoes and gravy like he’s hasn’t been fed for a year.

Oh, to be fourteen again.

“Fix cars mostly,” Dean answers casually, giving nothing away. Like his fucking  _ age _ .

“Ah, a mechanic. No wonder you knew what to do with the garage door then.” Balthazar leans back in his seat, grabs onto the back of Castiel’s chair in a way that’s far too familiar to be anything other than a goddamn  _ claim _ . “I wouldn’t have had a clue.”

It’s meant as an insult - Balthazar is so far above manual labor that he doesn’t even know how to change a fuse - but it slides off Dean’s back like the water in Castiel’s pool.

_ Super not helpful right now. _

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.” Dean says, tone flat. “Lucky that I do, huh?”

Balthazar’s lips compress into a thin line.  “Yes, I suppose so.”

Any second now they’re gonna both whip their cocks out and have a literal pissing competition. Castiel isn’t sure what it says about him that he’s already rooting for Dean.

“And I’d be happy to do any odd jobs that need doing.” Dean glances slyly at Castiel,  “As I was telling Mr Novak earlier, I’m  _ really _ good with my hands.”

Castiel, in the middle of another sip of wine, snorts ungracefully into the glass.

Jesus fuck.

Balthazar’s palm slides between Castiel’s shoulder blades, patting gently, then rubbing what he thinks are soothing circles over the fabric of Castiel’s shirt.

Despite his coughing fit, Castiel doesn’t miss the way Dean’s watching him, watching Balthazar, watching them together. Something utterly dark and violent behind Dean’s eyes sends chills trickling down Castiel’s spine.

He manages to shrug Balthazar off with an insistence that he’s fine. Takes a huge gulp of wine. “I’m just gonna get some more.” He shoves his chair out and makes his escape.

In the kitchen, he’s tempted to do away with the pretense of the glass and just drink straight from the bottle. He’s just twisting off the metal cap (cheap cheap cheap) when he decides what a monumentally bad idea that would be. Like this evening isn’t already complicated enough without adding Castiel getting wasted into the mix.

So, with shaking, clammy hands he pours himself another glass. Right to the brim. Takes a quick swig from the bottle before recapping it and putting it back in the fridge (yeah yeah).

_ Take a breath. Keep breathing. In and out, in and out. _

When he returns to the dining room, Dean is leaning into his brother’s space, grinning and teasing as Sam shoulder checks him. It’s surprisingly adorable. Castiel has seen them playing in the pool together a few times now (not that he was spying, because he _ definitely wasn’t _ ) but up close like this, it’s obvious just how much Dean loves his younger brother; doesn’t treat him like a burden or a chore. Castiel’s own experience of being a younger sibling had been nothing but pranks and stern talkings to. But still, Castiel knows that Gabriel loves him.

Deep down.

He doesn’t need to wonder what Gabriel would say if he were here. If he knew about his husband and  _ whatever Dean is _ sitting down for a meal together.

Retaking his seat at the table, he attempts to break the tension (mostly radiating from Balthazar’s side) with, “So are you looking forward to going back to school, Sam?”

Sam lays his fork down on the nearly empty plate and shrugs as he reaches for his soda. “I’m sure we won’t be there long enough for me to get beaten up by the older kids, so that’s a plus.”

Horrified, Castiel flicks his eyes over to Dean, muscle in his jaw flexing as his expression closes off. But not before Castiel sees the flash of regret there.

“Dad said we’re staying for a while, Sammy.” Dean tells him, turning in his seat to face his brother, suddenly looking fifteen years older, like the burden of Sam’s happiness rests entirely on his shoulders. “I promise you we’re not going anywhere.” Then he adds, voice low, “And if any other kids give you shit, you know what I’ll do.”

Sam sighs, twirls his fork. “I know, Dean.”

Castiel doesn’t doubt that they’ve had this conversation a thousand times before. Before he can think about it he says, “And I’ll look out for you too, Sam,” like it’ll mean anything, but apparently it does, because Dean’s smile and mouthed ‘thank you’ is filled with so much genuine gratitude that it makes the space behind Castiel’s ribs ache.

  
  


***

  
  


Dean and Sam stay afterwards to help clean up despite Castiel’s repeated protestations. In the end, he relents, leaning up against the counter with a fresh glass of wine as Dean washes while Sam dries.

“All that money and he couldn’t even buy you a dishwasher, huh?” Dean murmurs, voice smudged soft around the edges, inclining his head in the direction of the dining room where Balthazar is still sitting, drinking brandy now.

A corner of Castiel’s mouth turns up in a smile. “I think he has better things to spend it on. Like himself.”

Dean grins, but there’s sadness in the depths of his eyes. “You know he’s not worth your time, right?”

Maybe it’s the wine that has loosened his tongue, maybe it’s just the close proximity to Dean, who’s not only hot as the fucking sun, but is kind and a great older brother, but either way Castiel nods, says, “Yeah. I’m beginning to get that.”

“Good.” Dean says, handing Sam a sudsy plate, before plunging his hands back into the water. “I meant what I said this morning.”

Castiel doesn’t need to think too hard about which part of the conversation Dean’s referring to. Heat curls low in his stomach. Something must show on his face because Sam makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, “Are you two gonna start making out, because I’m going home if you’re gonna start being gross.”

Dean slaps Sam gently upside the head, leaving a trail of bubbles in his hair. “He’s married, you ass.”

“You’re an ass.” Sam flicks the dish cloth at Dean’s face. 

From there it’s all out war. Washing up forgotten as the boys grapple with one another, at first just flinging handfuls of bubbles and water at each other until Sam decides to fight dirty, using the extension hose to soak his brother. Of course, Castiel ends up getting dragged into the fray and before long the three of them are panting, chests heaving, drenched through to the bone. Dean’s looking up at Castiel through wet lashes, water dripping down his nose as Castiel splutters and coughs, tries not to focus on the sensation as water soaks into the waistband of his pants, and he’s thinking that there’s nothing he’d rather do than offer to get Dean naked (solely to get his clothes dry of course) when they’re interrupted by someone clearing their throat from the kitchen doorway.

Balthazar.

Fuck’s sake.

“Having fun?” He asks imperiously, completely unironically, not realizing that he’s the one who’s hilariously misplaced in this situation, with his designer suit and two fingers of brandy in a fucking crystal glass.

“We  _ were _ .” Dean responds icily. He plucks his wet shirt away from his skin. “Suppose we’d better get going now though. Past Sammy’s bedtime and all.”

“Yes, run along children.” Balthazar mutters, clearly pleased with himself, smirking over the rim of the glass.

It’s the absolute opposite of what Castiel wants; Dean leaving, Balthazar staying, but there’s no way to voice that without causing even more problems, so instead he tries to catch Dean’s eyes, to explain without words.

Dean seems to get it, because he nods, hands curling over Sam’s shoulders. “I’ll see you around, Castiel.”

It’s the first time that he’s ever called Castiel by his first name - despite his repeated insistence in that first week - and it has Castiel’s heart thumping so hard and fast that he’s worried it might crack his ribs.

“Yeah, see you Dean.” And then, like an afterthought, even though the younger Winchester is far from it, it’s just his elder brother’s magnetic presence. “See you Sam.”

“Yeah, yeah. We all get it, I’m chopped liver.”

And with that, Dean steers Sam out of the kitchen with one final heated glance over his shoulder.

Shit.

“The younger one’s nice. Not sure about that Dean lad though.” Balthazar muses, swirling the amber liquid in his glass and Castiel wants to smash it into his stupid fucking face, jagged and sharp. Thankfully (or not), before Castiel gets to carry out his little fantasy, apparently satisfied with the damage he’s done, Balthazar turns away and heads into the lounge, drink still gripped loosely in his fingertips.

Standing there in the silence of the kitchen, steady drip of the water from his shirt onto the tiles, it feels like Castiel has made a decision by allowing Balthazar to stay and Dean to leave.

The wrong one.

It’s almost definitely the wine again (that's what he'll be blaming it on in the morning), but a split second later, Castiel’s chasing after the Winchester brothers, flinging open the front door in a spectacularly dramatic fashion, all lifetime movie-ish, catching up to them just as they’re walking across the lawn.

“Dean, wait.”

Dean turns, opens his mouth to speak, but Sam beats him to the punch. “I’ll see you at home, Dean.”

“Okay Sammy.” Dean responds automatically, not taking his focus off Castiel, green eyes almost scary in their intensity.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything, but then something catches in the upper corner of Dean’s vision - most likely Balthazar come to spy on them - and he reaches out to drag Castiel to him, pulling him by his belt loops until there’s nothing between them but their shared heat, even through the chill of their wet shirts, Dean’s thumbs slipping under the hem to get at damp skin.

Close enough to share breath, Dean says, “I would take such good care of you. But you gotta let me.”

Castiel nods dumbly, whether in understanding or acquiescence, he’s not entirely sure.

Then Dean’s lips are at Castiel’s ear, voice barely above a whisper, “Is that a yes Castiel? ‘Cause you know what’s gonna happen if it is, right? I’m gonna fuck you. I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t take it anymore, until you’re screaming yourself hoarse with how good it feels. I’m gonna show you things that  _ he _ couldn’t even dream of. I’m gonna worship you, every inch of you, with my hands, my lips, my tongue, my  _ dick. _ I’m gonna love you like you deserve to be loved and I’m not gonna stop until either one of us is dead. You want that? You prepared for that? ‘Cause I need you to be sure.”

Dean’s vehemence is terrifying and intoxicating all at once. In spite of the chill in his bones, Castiel feels hot all over, brain fuzzy with alcohol. He can barely think over the throb of his own cock, let alone when he can feel Dean’s too, solid length of it as much of a promise as Dean’s words.

Fuck.

In a few weeks’ time, Dean is going to be a student at the school. Not one of Castiel’s students (probably), but a student nonetheless. How’s he going to deal with Dean walking the halls? How’s Dean going to deal with seeing Castiel, but having to restrain himself from touching? (and vice versa). What about Balthazar?

Fuck it.

They’ll burn those bridges when they come to them.

“Yes.” He turns his head just enough so that his mouth ghosts against Dean’s. “I want it all.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has pissed me off no end. I may edit it at some point, once I've been able to take a step away from it, but for now I hope it's what was wanted :)
> 
> Thanks for all the wonderful comments, guys. Always appreciated. (I'll be answering the ones from the last chapter tomorrow morning, I'm mostly asleep right now).

Wanting it all is absolutely fine when your ex isn’t standing on your porch, arms folded, all faux-parental, looking like he’s about to burst a blood vessel.

It’s a little satisfying. Just a  _ teensy _ bit.

It’s also partly Castiel’s fault - maybe a little of Dean’s too - but that doesn’t change the fact that Balthazar needs to leave if Dean’s going to be keeping his filthy-hot promises tonight.

Castiel desperately wants Dean to be a man of his word, so he’ll facilitate it in any way he can. If it has the added bonus of Balthazar finally understanding that Castiel doesn’t want him, has run out of ways to tell him (except not really), then that’s just the icing on the very delicious cake.

In fact, scratch that. It’s immensely satisfying and that thread of righteousness coiling itself tighter around the synapses in Castiel’s brain, probably stemming the blood flow or something else vital, is most likely responsible for Castiel taking Dean’s hand in his and dragging him towards the house. Not that Dean is protesting, because of course he’s not.

This is a phenomenally bad idea, but Castiel’s libido is driving this car crash waiting to happen; Castiel himself is merely in the goddamn passenger seat, peeking through his fingers.

When they reach the Balthazar-blocked door (and isn’t he just the world’s most pompous bouncer) his husband is looking down his nose at them and Castiel wants to fucking break it. “Balthazar, leave.”

“Like Hell,” He snarls, all riled up and venomous like a fucking puff adder.

“Fine.” Castiel smiles as sweetly as he can manage when he’s this desperate to get dicked by the hot boy next door. “Stay and watch then.” He shoves past his husband, shoulder clipping his, “Who knows, you might learn something.”

Behind him, Dean laughs.

  
  


***

 

It’s not difficult to ignore Balthazar’s presence when Dean’s taking up all of the air and space in the room just by existing in it. Dean kisses like he seems to do everything else; with an unparalleled intensity that makes Castiel’s knees want to give out and his heart feel like it  _ is _ going to give out.

It wouldn’t be the worst way to go, but he’d at least like to survive long enough to get an orgasm out of it all - a petite mort; a not-so-dry run before his actual death.

There’s not really much of an opportunity to express that sentiment however, as Dean’s far too preoccupied with getting them both naked and Castiel is far too distracted by Dean’s nakedness to worry about words beyond ‘ _ oh fuck _ ’ right now.

He can’t pinpoint exactly when Balthazar left; only knows that he heard a sharp expletive right around the time that Dean shoved his hand down the back of Castiel’s pants when they were making out on the couch, and that it was followed up with a weak threat of vengeance that had made Dean smile against Castiel’s mouth, nipping at Castiel’s kiss-swollen bottom lip with the sharp points of his teeth, green eyes swallowed right to the pupil.

The front door had slammed hard enough to rattle the whole house and Dean had wasted no time in hauling Castiel off the couch and shoving him up against the nearest wall in what Castiel believes started out as a now aborted attempt to get to a bedroom.

Castiel’s old FNM shirt tears as Dean snatches it over his head, before his arms are completely there; a not-quite stick-up, more like daylight robbery. There’s no denying that Dean’s armed and dangerous though, not with the way he smirks at Castiel, like he  _ knows _ , and how the fuck he does at his age Castiel has no idea, but wishes he did. Wishes he had the kind of confidence at almost-thirty-one that Dean has at eighteen, but suspects it’s for that precise reason that he’s currently in this predicament.

Dean’s hands are all over him, fingertips gliding across Castiel’s chest in a barely there touch, palms skating down his sides, settling firm on the bared curve of Castiel’s ass, mouth not far behind as he trails kisses over every inch of newly exposed skin, whispered benedictions sealed with bruised lips.

“I wanted you the minute I met you,” Dean murmurs, down on his knees in front of Castiel, broad shouldered, bowed head, a knight in waiting, gently coaxing Castiel to step out of his jeans and boxer shorts, pressing a kiss to the inside of his left thigh, prickle of stubble against the sensitive skin there. “Wanted you in my bed, wanted to make you mine.”

Castiel whines, head falling back and connecting painfully with the wall, but he can’t bring himself to care, because he’s completely naked, wholly exposed, and so hard that he’s gonna go blind.

Still on his knees, mouthing kisses, tongue trailing dangerous close to exactly where Castiel needs it, Dean commands, “Turn around for me, Castiel.”

Out of his mind with desire, Castiel obeys; palms braced flat against the wall, spine arched. He feels all alley-cat wanton and desperate, heat coiled low in his stomach, pooling at the base of his cock. For a long few seconds nothing happens and then he’s whisper-whimpering Dean’s name as he feels the wet drag of Dean’s tongue over his perineum, slick and hot. Hands on the backs of Castiel’s thighs like a brand, Dean’s grip tightens, palms sliding up to grab his ass, pulling his cheeks apart and holding him open for his tongue; it’s simultaneously the only thing keeping Castiel upright and also threatening to send him crumpling to the floor.

Thumbs slipping in to open him up even more, Dean licks over Castiel’s hole once, twice, and Castiel lets out a gurgled moan as Dean penetrates him with his tongue, shoving hard and slick through the tight ring of muscle. Hot thickness pushing in deeper with each thrust, as Castiel sags further and further back, moaning into the crook of his own arm, face on fire, but so turned on that he feels sick with it. Dean nips at his rim, raw scrape of his teeth, so wrong, so  _ filthy-hot _ , and Castiel can’t think beyond this  _ thing _ between them, can’t begin to form a rational thought that doesn’t involve him getting fucked in the next 30 seconds.

As if he can read Castiel like a kindergarten book, all four letter words and flimsy plot, Dean sinks his middle finger into Castiel’s hole, alongside the dip of his tongue. Fucks it in and out a couple of times, breath hot and damp on Castiel’s overly sensitive skin, and Castiel’s dick is on the verge of causing a scene, jerking with each broad lick of Dean’s tongue, with each push to the knuckle of Dean’s finger, tacky smear of pre-come against his stomach.

Dean slides another finger in alongside the first, pushing deep, grazing Castiel’s prostate. Which is about when Castiel forgets how to breathe; body locking up tight, on the verge of orgasm without a goddamn hand on his dick and he didn’t even know that it was possible, had no idea his body was capable of it, why would he, nobody has ever touched him like this, never -

“He do this for you, Castiel?” Dean’s voice is low and dangerous, possessiveness infusing every syllable, and Castiel’s a sweating, strung-out mess; he’s never had it this good-terrible before and he wants it to be over and for it to never end all at the same time.

Castiel shakes his head, jaw clenched, teeth gritted. 

“One day soon I’m gonna really take my time with you, spend a whole afternoon eating you out, gonna make you come just on my tongue, Cas. Make you scream for me. Make you scream my name in the bed that he used to fuck you in. And then I’m gonna do it all over again until you’ve forgotten the names of anyone else who’s ever touched you, until all you can  _ think _ is my name.”

It’s vicious as fuck, completely unnecessary and holy  _ shit _ Castiel wants it. Wants it like he’s dying for it, wants to get on his knees and beg Dean for it.

All he can muster at the current time, by way of response, is a high-pitched whine.

He can’t hear much beyond the roar of his pulse in his ears; can just about make out a faint rustling sound from behind him, the crinkle of foil, Dean spitting something out and then there’s the chill of lube at his stretched rim, those two fingers pulled out, slicked up and pushed back in along with a third.

He makes an unintelligible noise; a strangled approximation of Dean’s name.

Dean presses a wet kiss to the sweat-damp dip of Castiel’s spine, spreads his fingers, rubbing Castiel loose. “You want that?”

Castiel’s forgotten the goddamn question, so close to coming, every nerve ending rewired and sparking, crackling electricity in his veins and oh fuck, oh fuck,  _ oh fuck _ .

“Gonna--Dean. Fuck. Please--”

But then Dean is removing his fingers and rising back to his feet, voice cracked and bleeding around the edges when he tells Castiel to face him again, and it takes a few long moments for Castiel’s brain to come back online enough to comply, sweat-sticky palm prints left behind on the wall. Dean’s slicks his cock with the rest of the small packet of lube, before he reaches out, dragging Castiel’s right leg up to rest in the crook of his elbow ,  and then he’s pushing the head of his dick into Castiel’s body, keeping him open wide, filling him up, inch by torturous inch.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, mouth ghosting Castiel’s, eyes jet-black. “You want me to fuck you?”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Castiel sobs, hands gripping tight on Dean’s shoulders, nails cutting crescents into flawless skin and smooth muscle. His eyes flutter shut, breath caught in the back of his throat as Dean sinks in completely, pubic bone digging right up against Castiel’s perineum.

“That feel good?” Dean’s breath is humid, dirty-hot against the shell of Castiel’s ear and Castiel barely nods as he lifts his other leg up, trying to catch it on Dean’s hip, and Dean reaches down for it, hauling him up, effortlessly pinioning Castiel to the wall, hips shifting so that Castiel sinks that little bit deeper onto his cock.

Castiel keens, arching his lower back, heels skidding through the sweat at the base of Dean’s spine, all breathy and trembling when he begs, “Dean,  _ please _ .” He’s not even sure what he’s begging for at this point, just knows that he needs it, needs Dean to provide it.

“I got you,” Dean says palms fitting to the curve of Castiel’s ass, holding him still, like Castiel has plans to go anywhere, like he could even if he wanted to. “You’re mine now, right?” Dean’s dark eyes are on him, laser focussed and it’s so so intense, like all things are with Dean; not so much rose-tinted glasses as it is a 20x magnification lens, everything so much more acute and vibrant.

It’s not like Castiel is in a position to give any other answer, not with the way Dean’s pelvis is swivelling slowly, thick length of his cock teasing, withdrawing a few inches, nudging all the way back in. “Yes, fuck. Please.”

“ _ God _ ,” Dean chokes, starting to fuck Castiel steadily, hips moving faster, “So fucking beautiful, Castiel. Gonna give you everything.”

“Yeah, give it to me,” Castiel’s fingers twist into the strands of Dean’s hair as he’s shunted further up the wall with each increasingly savage thrust, and he’s gonna have some goddamned bruises tomorrow, plenty of friction burns; it’s gonna look like he was pinned down and fucked by a wild animal, left utterly used and fucked out.

And he  _ likes _ it. 

He reaches down with one hand to stroke his leaking cock trapped between their stomachs, suddenly frantic with how badly he needs to come. Dean’s fucking him with all the promised violence of his declaration outside and there’s no way that Castiel’s gonna last much longer.

“Oh god oh god oh god oh-” He can’t keep his mouth shut, balanced right on the edge of an earth-shattering orgasm and he can barely see straight anymore, wet, fevered slap of skin on skin and the continuous jolt of his body, impaled over and over again on Dean’s fucking perfect dick.

“Come for me, Castiel.” Dean’s voice is pitch black, suffused with so much want that Castiel can’t breathe for it, and he jerks in the cage of Dean’s strong arms, coils of muscle just beneath the skin, and he’s coming, mouth falling open around a silent scream, every muscle in his body cramping as he paints Dean’s chest and his own fist with come.

“Cas, fuck, so perfect. Cas -” Dean’s words begin to lose their defined edge, slurring and blending into one long stream of conscious thought, brutal thrusts damn near pounding Castiel through the wall, and it’s bordering on painful as Dean’s fingertips dig bruises into Castiel’s skin, but it’s good,  _ so fucking good _ . “God, I’m gonna--”

In a night of stupid decisions, it feels like nothing for Castiel to pile on, so he twists his grip in Dean’s hair, tugging his head back a little, forcing Dean to meet his eyes, and demands, “Yeah, come inside me Dean. Make me yours. Just for you.”

Of course, hindsight is always 20/20 and later Castiel will realize that this was  _ the moment _ , but for right now he’s had the most spectacular orgasm of his lifetime and he’s got a gorgeous eighteen year old sucking a bruise into the skin of his collarbone, so he can hardly be blamed for not caring about the potential (and then actual) fallout.

Not really anyways.

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before Dean, Cas and Sam all go back to school, so if that's what you're here for then I applaud you for sticking it out this long!

When Castiel wakes up the next morning, it’s not the gradual refined process that romantic comedies would have you believe; all thin strips of wan morning sunlight slanting through the gaps in the blinds, birds tweeting outside, attractive couple effortlessly still beautiful despite their sexy, frantic coupling the previous evening. 

No, for Castiel it’s a sudden (and painful) flail of limbs, restricted somewhat by the sheets tangled around his left leg, a choked snort, a deep throb in his ass, and somewhere there’s a weird grinding noise - no bird song here, not unless the avian in question has a serious chest infection.

Oh and he’s  _ alone _ .

On the bright side, he is actually in bed, so there’s that. Though, he doesn’t remember the exact process by which he got there. Most likely, Dean carried him? Which is mildly embarrassing, but mainly kinda hot.

And  _ oh god _ , he fucked the hot boy next door. Or let the hot boy next door fuck him. Whatever. Either way he did the exact opposite of what Gabriel told him to do. Which isn’t all that unusual in and of itself, it’s just that this time, Gabriel might have actually had the right idea.

There’s another short burst of that grinding whirring sound followed by a longer held version. Now that Castiel’s a little bit more cognizant, it sounds like an electric drill, but it’s far too early -

\- okay, so it’s nearly eleven thirty.

Well. It might not be  _ that  _ early, but Castiel is caffeine-less, so it may as well be four am for all his tender, aching body cares.

  
  


***

  
  


For all that waking up had sucked, actually  _ getting up _ is ten times worse and by the time that he’s at the bottom of the stairs, dressed haphazardly in a loose pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that has unquestionably seen better days, he’s feeling irritable and at least double his age. 

Coffee. Now.

Padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, on his way to the kitchen, he locates the source of the noise. It’s Dean, kneeling with the front door ajar, currently manually screwing something into place, (and seriously, more workman porno cliches?) brow creased in keen concentration, utterly stunning as per usual.

Because Castiel apparently needed to feel more of an unattractive curmudgeon this morning.

Dean’s framed in the doorway, sandy hair sticking up in soft tufts, thin cotton of his dark shirt practically molded to his toned body, jeans worn in all the right places. He looks like a wet dream come true and it’s all Castiel can do to not throw himself at the poor bastard.

God, how in the fuck does he look that damn good? It can’t just be youth on his side; it’s gotta be some  _ seriously _ good genes. Maybe a deal with the devil? A drink from a silver chalice in Bimini?

But then, you’re only as old as the person you feel, right? So following that logic, Castiel should be feeling invincible, not like he’s about to collect his 401k.

Maybe he needs to  _ feel _ Dean some more. Yeah. Certainly can't do any harm, right?

“Hello, Dean.” He croaks, voice scratchy. He clears his throat, takes a step forward, arms wrapped around himself. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing the door.” Dean replies with a small grunt, red screwdriver in hand, muscles bunching beneath the sleeves of his shirt. 

Castiel wasn't aware that the door needed fixing. The confusion must show on his face, because when Dean finally looks up at him, he smiles softly, boyish and handsome. He reaches down into the pile of tools and underarm tosses Castiel a ring with two keys on.

“New keys, for the new lock.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

It makes sense. Castiel should have done it the second Balthazar moved out. At least now he doesn’t have to worry about his husband sneaking in whilst he’s out and then refusing to leave. Not that he would have been worried about that. Not until last night.

This is for the best. Balthazar has made it perfectly clear that he isn’t going to make it easy for Castiel. This is just the first (real) step towards severing ties for good.

And why the hell wouldn’t he want to do that, really?

Castiel looks over the keys in his hand, skin-warm metal of them.

Time to move the fuck on. As if last night hadn’t sealed his fate on that front.

Jesus fuck, what was he thinking, dragging Dean in here in front of Balthazar like that?

Well, he obviously wasn’t thinking. Not with his upstairs brain at least. But there’s no denying that the whole experience was - not to put too fine a point on it - fucking awesome.

So fuck Balthazar. Or not.

He drops the keys on the sideboard to his left. “Thank you, Dean.”

Throaty growl of the drill again, Dean blows away some sawdust, “It’s no problem, Cas.”

Castiel wavers, torn between making a joke about how he’s gonna pay Dean back this time and piling on the genuine gratitude. He splits the difference and goes for a teasing, “You just happened to have a lock lying around, huh?”

Dean smirks, smoothly pushes to his feet in one fluid move, powertool in his right hand and  _ seriously _ , Castiel’s not touching that one with a ten foot pole. “What can I tell you? I'm a handy guy.”

There’s no denying that, really.

“I brewed a pot by the way,” Dean offers over his shoulder, closing the door, checking the catch of the lock. “I figured you'd want some coffee when you got up.”

_ ‘Holy fuck, take me now’ _ doesn’t come out of Castiel’s mouth, but he’s definitely thinking it.

“Oh, and there's pancakes too. Dunno how many are left though, ‘cause Sammy had some and he's a fucking gannet.”

  
  


***

  
  


The coffee is good. Like really  _ really _ good and Castiel could absolutely get used to this. Balthazar is a tea-drinker, hates coffee, so his attempt was always ropey enough for Castiel to hang himself with. 

This though, this is  _ perfect _ .

He stares impassively out of the kitchen window, not really thinking about much, just savoring his coffee. He can hear Dean packing his tools up and there’s something comforting in listening to him move around the house that settles low and warm in Castiel’s bones. Often, when he and Balthazar were in separate rooms; Castiel marking or writing up lesson plans, Balthazar on his computer, he’d tense up a little if he heard his husband shuffling about from room to room, finding himself abruptly unable to concentrate.

It’s a bit unnerving just how easily Dean has insinuated his way into Castiel’s life like he belongs there. Not that Castiel’s complaining. Not if he gets fantastic sex, perfect coffee and pancakes all the time.

And the pancakes are goddamn chocolate chip too. His favorite.

Castiel finishes his coffee, swills the cup out and turns it upside down on the draining board.

Balthazar certainly never made Castiel pancakes for breakfast.

It’s probably not fair to keep comparing the differences between Balthazar and Dean, but it’s the only basis he’s got for pretty much  _ everything _ relationship/sex-related so it can’t be helped. Not that there’s any real competition. Just on coffee making abilities alone, Dean would win hands down.

Though he’s yet to try the pancakes. Something which needs to be rectified immediately.

He’s just reaching for a plate from the cupboard when he feels the air behind him shift, fresh outdoorsy scent of Dean and  _ sex _ curling around Castiel like a blanket, enveloping him, caging him in.

“Dean --”

“Yeah, Cas?” And then Dean's looming over him, all sleek and predatory, trapping him against the counter, and two inches never made such a big difference before, but this is Dean and he certainly made every inch count last night.

He’s so close that his heat bleeds into Castiel, hands possessive on Castiel’s hips, thumbs superimposing new bruises over the ones created less than twelve hours ago, thick length of his dick pressed tight against Castiel’s ass, and it has his own cock responding in kind, filling so quickly that it makes him dizzy.

There’s no room between them. So when Dean shifts his weight, his chest brushes up against the chafed skin on Castiel’s back and he flinches, an involuntary knee-jerk reaction.

“Castiel?” Then Dean’s urging to face him with one strong hand gripping his shoulder, the other still on the jut of his hip. “What’s wrong?”

He looks so concerned, expression completely open, eyes scanning over Castiel’s face, looking for any clues, that Castiel doesn’t have the heart to whinge about it, “Just a bit stiff after last night.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth.

Dean’s eyes darken almost instantaneously, moss green rapidly swallowed by black, “Yeah?” and there’s that tension again, thick with promise, and Dean’s gaze is fixed on Castiel like there’s something else he wants to say, but then the hand on Castiel’s hip is worming its way down past the loose waistband of Castiel’s sweats, and his breath is coming in shocky, breathless pants as Dean turns his wrist, grazing his fingers along the underside of Castiel’s rock hard dick. “Understatement, eh Cas?” He strokes Castiel’s cock feather-light from base to tip, smearing his thumb through the blurt of precome that forms at the head.

Before Castiel can form a coherent thought, let alone find the words to voice it, Dean’s hand is out of his pants, and he’s staring straight at Castiel, eyes locked on his, studying for some kind of reaction, as he leans in and drags the same thumb over Castiel’s bottom lip, tacky fluid snagging. Castiel freezes, pulse fluttering in his throat, then Dean’s pressing impossibly closer, tongue darting out, fast and slick, and he’s licking at Castiel’s lip, sucking away the taste and Castiel’s mouth opens for him on automatic, and it’s all hot, urgent slide of tongues, warmth and wetness, and Castiel’s chasing the flavor of himself out of Dean’s mouth, the salty-earthiness.  

“Mmm.” Dean says, voice rough and low when he pulls away, sucking the tip of his thumb into his obscenely pink mouth for good measure, licking away all traces of Castiel, “You taste so good, Cas. But then I already knew that.”

If ever there was a moment when Castiel could have stopped this, even slowed it the hell down, it’s been set alight and burned to the fucking ground. And then the ashes have been scattered to the four winds.

Magnetized, he sways, drawn back towards Dean’s mouth, and before he knows it, his arms are wreathed around Dean’s neck and Dean’s fingers are trailing down the dip of his spine, down the back of his sweatpants this time, fingertip sliding along the cleft of Castiel’s ass.

Castiel whines, grinding back into Dean’s hand, an unspoken demand for more, always  _ more _ .

Dean makes an approving noise in the back of his throat, “Your husband know what a kinky fuck you are?”

Castiel shakes his head, unable to vocalize the single word necessary.

The pad of Dean’s finger strokes over Castiel’s rim, slipping inside where it’s hot and tight, and it burns, it hurts Castiel’s abused hole, but his cock jerks enthusiastically, apparently not getting the memo. He swallows hard around nothing, mouth dry, and he’s finding it hard to focus over the constant thrum of want climbing up his spine, his world siphoned down to  _ Dean _ ; Dean’s body, his fingers, his mouth, his dick.

Dean’s warm breath curls over Castiel’s ear as he murmurs, “You sore?”

“...No?”

“Liar,” Dean says, but there’s humor wound through the words.“You want me to kiss it better?”

Fuck.

Castiel’s on the verge of breaking down and pleading for it, if it means that Dean will put his mouth on him again, but sadly that train of thought gets derailed by the sound of the doorbell, and the coiled tension between them unwinds so quickly that it’s almost jarring.

He’s not expecting anyone, and he feels Dean go rigid against him, clearly thinking the same thing.

Balthazar.

Before Castiel can stop him, or even attempt a token protest, Dean’s warmth is leaving him and he’s striding out of the kitchen, murder written in every taut line of his body.

Oh, shit.

He has to force his body to cooperate, partially unresponsive with thwarted desire. It takes a few long seconds, but he finally wrestles himself together enough to follow Dean, ready to mediate or at least stand on the sidelines and half-heartedly plead Dean to not do anything that all three of them may regret.

He hurries after Dean and huffs a small laugh of relief when he sees who’s standing on the stoop.

Gabriel. Not Balthazar.

_ Thank fuck. _

Of course this opens up a whole other can of worms that Castiel isn’t ready to have crawling all over him just yet.

As Castiel approaches, neither Gabe or Dean are looking at him, too focused on each other; Gabriel is watching Dean through honey-whiskey eyes, silently appraising, probably figuring everything out, like he has a habit of doing, and Dean is looking back at him, amusement apparent.

It’s Gabriel who breaks first, finally turning his attention to Castiel and barging past Dean to get into the house. “You didn’t tell me you got a butler, Castiel.”

Ignoring that comment, Castiel tries on his brightest I-totally-wasn’t-about-to-get-laid-you-cock-blocking-bastard smile, “Gabe. What are you doing here?”

Gabriel gives him the  _ look _ . “We’re going out to lunch, remember? Discussed it yesterday, along with  _ some other things _ that you’ve clearly forgotten too.” He inclines his head in Dean’s direction.

_ No fucking the hot boy next door. _

It’s about as subtle as Gabriel gets, which Castiel is thankful for at this moment in time. But still. He’s a grown man. Dean’s a grown man. They’re both consenting adults. Nobody’s done anything illegal or even morally wrong. Questionable, perhaps, but Castiel’s toed the line his entire life, surely he’s entitled to a bit of excitement? He’s got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

Which doesn’t explain why he’s left fumbling for an explanation, much to the apparent delight of Dean. “Err, Gabe this is Dean. He lives next door - uhm. He came over to fix the clutch in the garage yesterday, and he’s just changed the locks on the door for me.”

“Has he?” Gabriel says slyly, clearly not believing a word of it, even though it’s all technically true. Lying by admission isn’t really lying. Balthazar taught him that. “Well, I hope you’re paying him properly for services rendered.”

Dean coughs a laugh into his fist.

Shooting Dean a warning glare, Castiel quickly turns to his brother, remembering that he has a Hail Mary for this unbelievably awkward situation, “There’s some chocolate chip pancakes in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Gabriel, forever cursed with an insatiable sweet-tooth, narrows his eyes at Castiel. “Alright, I’ll eat your batter-based bribe, but we’re talking about this.”

Castiel nods, already working on ways to get out of _ that  _ fun conversation. “Sure.”

Dean, smirking in a way that makes Castiel want to both punch and kiss him (not necessarily in that order), says, louder than necessary and entirely for the departing Gabriel’s benefit, “Well, I guess I’d better get going then. I’ll see you later, Mr Novak.”

Once Gabriel is completely out of sight, Dean’s leans in, lips against Castiel’s ear, “I’ll pick you up some Neosporin for your back.” Then he’s slipping out the front door, sending Castiel a quick wink before it closes behind him.

(not-so) Little shit. Maybe Castiel really is an awful liar.

As soon as the door clicks shut, he hears his brother shouting from the kitchen, muffled by a mouthful of pancake (which every bastard but Castiel has had the opportunity to taste by now). “You totally fucked him, didn’t you.”

Lips rounding on nothing, Castiel tries, “...No?”

Scratch that, he’s  _ definitely  _ an awful liar.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have a confession to make. When I started this fic, I had an idea of where I wanted it to go (which most likely would have resulted in MCD a la _The Cask of Amontillado_ ), but now I have _no clue_ , so it looks like we’re gonna be holding hands and sailing off this cliff together, Thelma and Louise style. 
> 
> Fun, huh?

The new school year rolls around far too quickly for Castiel’s liking. It's true of every year, but this time, he feels it more acutely. 

Of course, a huge part of that is Dean. The last couple of weeks have been… interesting? Fun? Hot as fuck? And now they have to get back to the real world and act like they’ve not been screwing each other’s brains out at every opportunity. Which, given that Dean’s express purpose in life seems to be to make Castiel’s dick hard and brain ache - in that order - it isn’t going to be an easy feat.

So, yeah. Maybe they should have thought this through a little more carefully (or at all), but Castiel challenges anyone in his situation to not have their self-control crushed to powder beneath the weight of want, that has absolutely everything to do with scattered freckles and the swell of muscle beneath band shirts, and nothing at all to do with rationale and good judgment.

Gabriel is simultaneously impressed by and disapproving of Castiel’s relationship(?) with Dean. And in fairness, Castiel can see where his brother is coming from. Gabriel’s using logic and warnings of Castiel being known as  _ that _ teacher, the one who just couldn’t not fuck a student. It’s gross misconduct at best. At worst? Well, Dean’s of age, so at least Castiel wouldn’t go to prison, but his reputation would be in tatters.

He knows Gabriel’s right, because of course he is, but Castiel’s long since discovered that the harder he fights against it, fights against  _ Dean _ , the more he loses. Because it was all there in the not-so fine print, wasn’t it? Dean told him that first night.

So, even if he wanted out of whatever the fuck it is between him and Dean, he’d be shit out of luck. The bitch of it is, though, Castiel doesn’t want out. Doesn’t know what it is in his psyche that keeps looking for the emergency exits, keeps grappling for the ripcord, but he’s not actively planning an escape. Why would he? 

He’s  _ happy _ .

Dean makes him happy.

They’re just going to have to be sensible about this. Which is unfortunate, because sense is clearly not something that either of them have in abundance.

A couple of nights before school starts, Castiel sits Dean down at the dining table, Sam set up in the lounge with some of Castiel’s homemade jelly cookies watching a program on Discovery about lions - they’re both over here now more than they’re at home; John doesn’t seem to notice or care, even when he is around - and they discuss some ground rules for this new facet of their relationship/whatever it is.

It turns out to be remarkably straightforward.

There shouldn’t be any need for them to interact at  _ all  _ during school hours.

Castiel only teaches one senior class, which he’s pretty sure that Dean wouldn’t have any interest in, even if he knew about it. Dean’s determined not to go to college; is happy to get a full-time job as a mechanic as soon as he graduates, and while Castiel disagrees with Dean’s assessment of his own abilities and intelligence, he’d be lying if he didn’t say that he’s sort of grateful for Dean’s lack of academic ambition in this case, because it means that all of Dean’s electives will be in the vocational area - like auto mechanics and metalwork.

Nowhere near Castiel’s British Literature elective.

Castiel has also vetoed the prospect of them driving in together. Carpool rules be damned.

Dean nods his understanding, agrees entirely with Castiel. 

It all feels a little too good to be true.

  
  


***

 

The first day back at school is always strange. It's difficult for the kids; restless with all the things that they didn't do over the summer, and for the teachers? 

Well. Castiel’s already downed his own weight in coffee, confiscated two phones by lunch (after multiple warnings), and has almost walked out of his ninth grade class after a scrappy little blond kid asked why Shakespeare wrote in a foreign language.

So it's a pretty standard first day back after summer. And if Castiel finds himself occasionally scanning the scores of teenagers in the halls for a tall senior in a leather jacket, then that's nobody's business but his own.

 

***

 

Second day back and Castiel’s feeling good about this. He catches sight of Dean pulling into the lot in his monster car, Pantera’s ‘Domination’ blaring, effortlessly cool as he emerges, sunglasses pushed up into his artfully styled hair, leather jacket and Megadeth shirt telegraphing a devil-may-care attitude that’s going to attract teenagers from every social group to him without them fully understanding why.

Castiel can ogle from a distance. There was absolutely nothing in their agreement about that.

When Dean shows up for dinner that evening, Castiel casually brings up the hot boy he’d seen at school earlier and it takes Dean all of two seconds to catch on, dropping to his knees, demanding that Castiel tell him everything about this kid through stilted breaths as he blows Castiel right there in the kitchen, all velveteen mouth and fluttering eyelashes.

Yeah. They can totally do this.

  
  


***

 

So naturally, it’s the third day when it all goes to shit.

He should have known that Deans easy acquiescence was too good to be true. That Dean had taken to the rules a little  _ too well. _

Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups, and you’d think that Castiel would have learned his lesson by now, but apparently not, because he’d gone ahead and assumed that there were two adults in this relationship(slash-whatever) of theirs. He’d assumed that Dean wouldn’t want to see Castiel fired any more than Castiel would want to be fired.

But the worst thing? Is that Castiel had assumed Dean wouldn’t be interested in literature. Or at the very least, that Dean wouldn’t be interested in torturing the fuck out of Castiel at every given opportunity, because isn’t that exactly how they got together?

(Yes.)

And he’s got nobody to blame for that assumption but himself. 

So when he walks into his classroom the first period after lunch and sees Dean front and center, all loose-boned, slouched in his seat, an uncapped pen held in the long-fingered grace of his right hand, plastic end trapped between those plush lips, Castiel can’t bring himself to be mad. Not really.  

Dean’s eyes meet his, knowing green, lazy smirk curling one corner of his mouth as he drags the pen against his bottom lip, beyond goddamn suggestive, especially considering what they’d been doing the night before, and that’s about when Castiel wishes that he’d never looked out of that fucking window.

It’s not like it would have made a difference, but sometimes Castiel likes to pretend that he had a choice in this.

There’s silent laughter dancing in the light of Dean’s eyes as Castiel tries his best not to trip over his own feet on the way to his desk. The harder he tries not to blush the hotter his cheeks get, tension strung so tight in the abruptly claustrophobic classroom that he feels the need to loosen his tie, desperate for air.

This is gonna be a long hour and ten minutes.

He coughs, clears his throat, covering the slew of curse words that threaten to bubble up at the sight of Dean’s knees falling open as far as the constraints of the desk will allow, a blatant invitation. Endeavors to focus on anything other than the stupidly attractive bastard in the front row who’s staring at him like he wants to eat him alive.

Like not losing his job, maybe?

Yeah, that’s a pretty good way to put this into perspective.

He can do this. He has  _ some  _ self-discipline.

He takes a bracing breath, pulls his tie into alignment and buttons his jacket, feigning composure that he doesn’t feel. “Good afternoon, class. For those of you who didn’t have me last year, I’m Mr Novak.” He turns, scrawls his name on the blackboard. By the time he faces the thirty or so expectant faces again, he’s a touch calmer. He’s a professional.  _ He can do this _ . “For those of you who did, I can only apologize and hope that we can get through this together. It’s only nine months and then we never have to see each other again.”

There’s a quiet rumble of laughter throughout the classroom.

“So.” He sets the chalk down on the edge of his desk, slides his hands into his pockets. He pointedly ignores the front row and by proxy, Dean’s challenging stare. “We’re going to be looking at some of William Blake’s work to start us off…”

Once he’s in the rhythm of teaching, discussing some of his favorite works of all time, it’s easier to disregard Dean’s almost incessant attempts to get some sort of (literal) rise out of him, and before he knows it, the bell’s ringing and he’s survived without swallowing his own tongue or getting an erection in front of the whole class. He ends with a reminder to read the poem they’ll be discussing next week.

“‘The Sick Rose,’” He shouts out over the noise of bodies moving, shovelling pens and papers into their bags, all excitable teenage chatter, “Don’t rely on external sources for your interpretations, I want to see some original thoughts please! Be prepared to share them next week.”

He turns his back as the teenagers filter out, pretends to be packing up papers into his messenger bag with moderately shaking hands, fingering through folders, hoping against all hope that Dean will show a teensy bit of mercy and just leave the classroom without harassing him further.

If there’s a small, ruinous part of him that wishes for the opposite, then that’s neither here nor there.

He feels Dean before he hears him, moving into his space, bare inches between them, tantalizing and excruciating in equal measure. “I have an original thought I’d like to share,  _ sir _ .” Castiel can hear the wicked grin in Dean’s voice; all pure distilled sin, completely lethal to his self-control, “Several actually. Mostly involving you bent over that desk, split open on my cock, so tight and hot like you always are for me. Writhing, panting, begging.”

Ignoring the way Dean’s words slice through him, sharp edge of lust urging Castiel to do something stupid and destructive, he instead takes a breath. Then another, and another until the roaring fire has dulled to smoldering embers. Until he’s ready and calm enough to reply, “Not exactly  _ original _ , Mr Winchester. A for effort though.”

Dean’s laughter curls over his ear, and Castiel savors it, can’t help himself. “See you at home,  _ Mr Novak _ .”

  
  
  


***

  
  


Dean and Sam never knock any more. It’s such a normal occurrence for them to be riffling through the kitchen cupboards in search of something sugary or flicking through the cable channels, that Castiel leaves the door unlocked for them, more often than not. 

Tonight though, he’s tempted to lock it, or at least pull the chain across. Just to spite Dean. But that wouldn’t be fair to Sam, who - despite the unhealthy hero-worshipping of his brother (and really, aren’t he and Castiel the same boat there?) - is a really bright kid, a joy to be around, and that Castiel has started buying skittles by the shopping-cart load to appease the fourteen-year-old’s sweet-tooth is a testament to how much he looks forward to the uncomplicated company that the younger Winchester brings.

He’s never done the same for his own brother; Gabriel can buy his own damn candy.

Turns out that he needn't have worried. Dean appears just as Castiel’s dumping the spaghetti in boiling water, tells him that Sam’s doing his homework next door with a new friend called Amy or Anna or something.

So yeah, he should have locked the door. Deadbolted the fucking thing.

Chopping the tomatoes, Dean’s chin hooked over his shoulder as he watches, arms linked loosely around his waist, Castiel says as evenly as he can, “Dean, you have to drop the class.”

“Why would I do that?”

Like he doesn’t know.

The urge to point out that Castiel is the one currently in possession of a very sharp knife and that Dean should do as he’s damn-well told for once in his fucking life, is somewhat smothered by the knowledge that it most likely wouldn’t even phase Dean. In fact, he’d probably get off on a knife to his throat.

Fuck, with all the kinky avenues of pleasure opened up to him recently, who knows, Castiel may do as well.

Carefully, he puts the knife down on the chopping board and twists himself around in the cage of Dean’s arms. He tries on his most beseeching smile; an attempt to appeal to the empathetic side that Dean keeps locked safely behind a facade of sexuality and arrogance, “Because I'm asking you to.”

Dean smirks, meeting Castiel’s eyes with devious intent, “Come on, Cas. You've gotta ask me nicer than that.”

Mustering up enough gravitas to match the seriousness of the situation, Castiel straightens up, palms flat against Dean’s pectoral muscles through the fabric of his shirt, ready to push if necessary, “Dean--”

“Ooh, I love it when you use your authoritative voice--”

“--Seriously, Dean.”

“--Makes me all tingly.”

Castiel doesn't crack a smile at that. He  _ doesn't _ . Because he's an adult, goddammit, and Dean is… Dean is Dean.

He sighs in the face of Dean's undeserved victory, energy and will to keep this argument going vaporizing. “I didn’t even know you were interested in the kind of stuff I teach.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Cas.” He presses a kiss to the pulse fluttering in Castiel’s throat. “‘ _ Cruelty has a human heart, _ ’” he moves his lips to Castiel’s jaw, “‘ _ and jealousy a human face; _ ’” a kiss placed just to the corner of Castiel’s mouth, “‘ _ terror the human form divine, and secrecy the human dress. _ ’” And then he’s coaxing Castiel’s tongue into his mouth in a warm wet slide of a kiss, cupping the edge of Castiel’s jaw, thumb smoothing across the rough stubble there, the kiss tender and affectionate, all natural urgency rather than desperate lust.

Castiel leans forward as Dean pulls away, chasing the contact. He blinks, heavy-lidded, strives to remember what the hell they were talking about before that kiss, and then he’s staring at Dean like a barely functioning moron, because  _ oh yeah _ . He doesn’t know what to say, wouldn’t even know where to start; pleasantly amazed and more than a little turned on. Which isn’t wholly unusual, given the present company, but _ holy shit _ .

A flush rises up on Dean’s face and he scratches his jaw uncomfortably, no sign of the cocky asshole from moments before, and it might be the most attractive that Castiel has ever seen him; something laid bare and open in the moment, making him beautiful in a brand new way. “Not just a pretty face, Cas.”

He can’t even argue with that. How could he? Castiel has been aware of Dean’s astuteness for some time now, even if Dean refuses to acknowledge it himself. The fact that he can quote obscure Blake poems at the drop of the hat? Well, Castiel can’t even begin to imagine denying Dean access to what could be the one thing that actually interests him. Besides winding Castiel up like a toy, of course.

“Fine,” Castiel concedes, tone firm. “You can stay in the class. But none of that shit you were pulling today. I mean it, Dean. I could lose my job.”

Dean nods in understanding and Castiel has that squirmy feeling of deja vu. He’s tempted to make Dean promise him (for what  _ that’ _ s worth), circles around a couple of other ideas, just about stops himself short of demanding it written in blood.

Perhaps sensing that Castiel is far from at ease about this situation, Dean runs his hands over Castiel’s forearms in a casual touch. “Look, Cas. I don’t want that any more than you do, I promise. I’d have to find another teacher to get my filthy kicks from and who would that be? Crowley? Gimme a break.”

He actually has the nerve to look repulsed by the idea. Which in fairness is reasonable because Crowley - the math teacher - is an interminable creep.  “Well, I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously.” Castiel mutters, sarcasm thick enough to cut with the knife he’s back to using on the tomatoes.

“C’mon, I'm living the American dream here. The  _ actual  _ one that every teenager has about fucking their hot teacher - not that capitalist bullshit. You think I’m gonna give that up?”

“How very patriotic.” Castiel mutters wryly, narrowly missing Dean’s fingers with the blade as he swoops in to steal a cube of diced tomato.

And that's the end of that conversation.

  
  
  


*** 

  
  


Balthazar turns up at Castiel’s house at the beginning of the second week into the semester, ring and pinky finger taped together with gauze and butterfly bandages, divorce papers fisted in his uninjured hand. 

“I don’t want the house,” He tells Castiel before he even has the door the whole way open. “I just want out.”

“Wha --” Balthazar shoves the papers into Castiel’s chest, clumsy but determined, before turning on his heel, practically running away from Castiel and getting into his car, slam of the door, tires squealing as he speeds off.

An arm slinks around his waist from behind, insidious yet reassuring. Dean lays a sloppy kiss on Castiel’s temple. “Fuckin’ result, wouldn’t you say Cas?” And then he’s gone again, probably to check on Sam and his homework.

Castiel glances over the crumpled paperwork in his hand. It is indeed a decree nisi, setting out terms for their divorce. Castiel comes out significantly better than he’d been expecting, which is… great? Obviously. But entirely unforeseen. The last conversation that he and Balthazar had was that night when he threatened to move back in. Nothing, not even a text since then to discuss things or to hint that this was coming. Castiel flips the cover sheet back and forth several times as though more information - or a fucking explanation - is going to suddenly appear.

Nothing makes itself apparent, so, distracted, he shuts the door. Bundles the paperwork together and dumps it on the sideboard, something about the encounter snagging and getting entangled with that goddamn ripcord that he'd never even think about pulling.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always the porny chapters that I end up not happy with. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you who are commenting and leaving kudos. It gives me the motivation to keep going, even when I'm having issues with wtf I'm actually writing here.

The first Castiel knows of Dean making the football team is when he turns up to Castiel’s class on Wednesday afternoon, dark leather swapped out for a bright Letterman; the new quarterback of Glen View High, and Castiel’s heart does this ridiculous skipping a beat thing that has his dick twitching in tandem, like there’s an invisible string between the two, inextricably linked--

Yeah, he needs to walk the hell away from that thought.

There have been hushed whispers in the halls all day; distracted pupils passing notes in class with their hastily scribbled predictions. It happens every year, and all the teachers are used to it; accept it as a sort of tradition that comes with the first couple of weeks of school.

This year though. This year is not like the others.

Once again, Dean is the wildcard; the disruption to Castiel’s otherwise steady and routine existence. And judging by the way an increasing amount of students stare wistfully after Dean in the hallways, it’s not only Castiel’s life that the teenager is playing havoc with.

He never even mentioned that he was going to try-outs. Like Castiel wouldn’t care or something? Because Castiel is on the wrong side of his twenties that he would have forgotten what it means to be high school royalty (or, more accurately, what it was like to harbor an insane and unrequited crush on the most popular boy in school)?

Some male students clap Dean on the shoulder as they pass his desk, shorthand for congratulations; some of the girls that sashay in are content with merely weaving their way past Dean’s desk, trail of sugar sweet perfume matching their love-heart eyes.

There are a few that are a little more proactive in expressing their affections, however, and Castiel has to tightly remind them to sit down, as he battles against a hot squirmy sensation in his gut that he loosely recognizes as jealousy. Which is ridiculous for a multitude of reasons, not least that throughout it all, Dean hasn’t take his eyes off Castiel, intensity and unfiltered adoration still there in spades that will be used to dig Castiel’s grave.

So maybe  _ this _ crush isn’t unrequited.

He swallows hard around nothing, aiming for nonchalance, but is pretty sure that he falls somewhere south of casual and plunges headfirst into overly invested.

“Okay class, settle. Yes, we’re all aware that sports is the be-all and end-all of everything, but if you could at least humor me with this English nonsense then I’d be overjoyed, okay?”

The chatter quiets reluctantly, gradually tapering off into restless silence.

“Thank you. Now I hope that you all had the time in your busy schedules to read the eight line poem I set you last week?”

There’s a general murmur of assent. Castiel makes a mental note of the few near the back who quite obviously haven’t bothered themselves with the homework. He’ll let it slide this once, but if it becomes a pattern, he’ll be having words.

“Excellent. Now who’s willing to get us started on the discussion?” He glances around the class, eyes not intentionally seeking out the new quarterback, but finding him time and again any way.

“The worm has infected the rose?” A senior near the back offers; Fitzgerald, Castiel thinks his name is.

“Yes,” Castiel says, drawing out the one syllable, a cue for Fitzgerald to elaborate. When it’s apparent that he has no intention of doing so, Castiel adds, “And?”

Silence. It’s always like pulling teeth the first few lessons. Once they get comfortable with him and each other, he’ll be hearing opinions about anything and everything, sifting through every fool’s gold theory for the one 24ct nugget of genius.

He can wait them out. He perches on the edge of his desk, his own battered paperback of William Blake’s classic poems in hand, annotated to within an inch of its life.

Finally, another classmate intervenes and Castiel breathes a silent sigh of relief, which catches in his throat a split second later when he realizes who it is.

“It’s about a secret, forbidden love,” Dean says like it’s obvious. “The rose is pure and chaste, but it’s sick. Sick because of the worm. The worm - could be an allegory for the serpent from Genesis, and as we all know, our boy Blake had a fascination with heaven and hell, angels and demons, so it’s not like it’s a stretch to assume that it is. In the bible, the serpent is portrayed as a deceptive creature or trickster, who’s all about leading folks off the straight and narrow.” His plump bottom lip is caught between perfect white teeth before he continues, “Also, the whole phallic thing with the snake-slash-worm? Not a coincidence. The ‘crimson joy’ of the rose? Come on, we all know what he’s referring to there. And the ‘dark secret love’ that destroys his life? Yeah, he’s talking about  _ something _ he knows he’s not supposed to have, but wants anyway - he just can’t stay away.”

Well, shit.

A pretty brunette girl seated to Dean’s left - Lisa Braeden - leans across the aisle and not-so-subtly slips Dean a folded piece of baby-pink paper. No doubt with her number on.

“Okay!” Castiel says after a jarring, breathless moment. “Okay, that’s very good, Mr Winchester. Uhm, can anybody else elaborate on Dean’s analysis?”

  
  


***

 

Later that night, skin sliding against skin, wide stretch of Dean’s cock inside him with nothing but sweat and spit slicking the way, Castiel’s riding that knife edge of pleasure and pain, but in the best way possible, because he's the one who gets to have this, not Lisa fucking Braeden. 

“Shoulda seen your face, Cas. Got me so fuckin’ hard. You were so jealous. God.”

Castiel opens his mouth to argue, but can’t because there’s a low moan in his throat that escapes first as Dean nails that shocky place inside him. His cheek is skidding against the dining table as Dean fucks him from behind, skin pink hot beneath his five o’clock shadow and he’s gonna have to let it grow out to a fucking 36 hour shadow to cover this particular friction burn; Neosporin be damned. There’s a fog on the surface of the wood, expanding with every uneven breath fucked from his lungs; helplessly pinned down by the spread of strong fingers at the nape of his neck, by the unyielding hand holding his wrists in the small of his back, by the dick in his ass, and he’s never felt this desperate for it.

“Dean, oh  _ christ _ .”

“Yeah that’s right.” Dean grits out, hard length of his cock driving in, twist of his hips on every back stroke in a way that drags infuriatingly against Castiel’s insides, possessive strength hauling their bodies together. “Say my name, Cas.”

Shuddering and panting, Castiel complies, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, unrelenting heat of Dean all over him, inside and out, “ _ Dean,  _ please. Please.”

“Fuck,” and then the pressure is abruptly gone from Castiel’s neck and wrists, the thrusts slowing to short shallow jabs, an unbearably hollow sensation by comparison. “Put this on.”

Something lands half on Castiel’s sweaty naked back, with a clean, but weak chemical scent; not something old, borrowed or blue. Castiel gets his elbows under him, pushes up off the table, stick-release of his clammy skin.

It’s Dean’s Letterman jacket (he was wrong about the blue), chenille patches spelling out ‘Winchester’ on the back in blocky white capitals, right above ‘Glen View Vikings’ in a different font, embroidered.

“Wanna see my name on you.” Dean damn-near growls, slow, nasty grind of his pelvis, and Castiel is pretty sure that the admission shakes something loose in him, because yes, yes he fucking wants Dean’s name all over him. Needs it more than he needs his next breath.

He hurries to do as he’s told, arms slipping inside the thick quilt lining. It’s hot in more than one sense of the word and suddenly, without warning, he’s getting slammed face-down onto the table again, pull tab of the zipper digging in just to the left of his navel, one of Dean’s broad palms between his shoulder blades, over his name, other hand underneath spun nylon, fingertips leached white and mauling more throbbing bruises into Castiel’s hip.

Dean doesn’t go slow and Castiel doesn’t want him to.

“Yeah,” Dean says voice low and thick, all sex drawl, nailing him good and proper. “Fuck, Cas. Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours.” Castiel whispers, barely a breath, hyper-aware of every place where they touch. Wet sigh drowned out by the wet slap of their skin as Dean fucks into him so hard that he nearly overbalances, shoved up onto his tiptoes with the force of Dean’s thrusts, guttural  _ uh uh uh _ ’s keeping time with the collision of their bodies, “Just yours, Dean.”

The resulting “ _ Fuck _ ,” sounds like it’s torn from the depths of Dean’s soul, dragged up through his entire being.

Castiel swallows a mouthful of spit, caught on Dean’s cock, sharp presses of Dean’s pelvis into the meat of Castiel’s ass. His own dick is aching hard, trapped between his stomach and the surface of the table, hips twisting against Dean’s, body taut, breath catching in his chest. All he can focus on is the hard drag of Dean’s cock pushing pushing  _ pushing _ all the way up inside, fat head slamming that sweet spot time and again. It’s perfect and dirty and everything that Castiel never knew he wanted, sight fading and sharpening in waves that crest and ebb along with the pleasure caused with every shove of Dean’s pistoning hips.

Castiel struggles to breathe around the sensation of Dean’s cock pulling him inside out, whole body flushing with the knowledge that he’s not going to be able to see the number 9 from now on without getting at least half-way hard; forever confined to the second circle of Hell.

Dean makes a low noise in his throat, each violent thrust of his hips growing more and more urgent and less and less consistent, “You drive me crazy, Cas. Wanna -- _ fuck _ \-- wanna be inside you all the time.”

Castiel’s barely in a position to argue, not with the way Dean seems intent on fucking the impression of his dick into Castiel’s body, a filthy-hot grind that has him whining low in his throat, scrabbling and clawing for purchase against the table, splintering wood and blood blooming underneath short fingernails, another sensation layered on top of so many others that he’s having trouble cataloguing them all at once.

He has absolutely no hope of getting a hand on his drooling dick, can barely keep himself upright, but he’s in the middle of a valiant attempt when his orgasm is sucker punched out of him, agonizing and uncompromising in its violent intensity, like everything with Dean is, but  _ oh so fucking good _ that he’s pretty sure he blacks out for a few seconds, because the next thing he knows is Dean’s coming too, creaming his insides, snarling Castiel’s name in a way that leaves him feeling vicious and vindicated and triumphant as all fuck.

He’s going steady with the high school quarterback and he’s got the goddamn Letterman jacket around his shoulders to prove it.

His eighteen-year-old self would be so proud.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plotty chapter this time, so not sexy, but definitely necessary!
> 
> Thank you once again to all of you leaving wonderful comments and stuff. Makes my day :).

The morning after the night before, Castiel’s locking his car in the school’s near-empty lot (he’s actually early for once) with a Dean-made coffee in hand and some severe bedhead when he catches sight of the physics teacher, Ms. Milton, waving him over with a kind smile and vermilion hair that has no visible flyaways whatsoever. So either she’s a witch or running on less than two hours sleep, because that must take quite some time to perfect.

Her smiles flickers and dims as he approaches. “Good morning, Castiel.”

He pretends not to notice, “Good morning, Anna.” He takes a sip of his now lukewarm (but still good) coffee. “Looking forward to another exciting day of teaching kids who already know everything?”

He’s adept at small talk with the other teachers, never revealing too much of himself. It’s not that he’s anti-social or even unable to communicate effectively, but he’s often found friendships difficult to maintain. People are fickle and it’s just easier to keep a distance whilst remaining politely friendly.

Anna huffs a small laugh as they begin to walk side-by side towards the main doors. She smells faintly of vanilla and something soft and floral. It reminds Castiel of his mom. “I’ve got some tenth graders who trust wikipedia more than me when it comes to thermodynamics.”

“Ahh,” Castiel says, holding the door open for Anna to walk through. It closes with a heavy metallic thump behind them, “because as we all know, everything on the internet is completely accurate.” They pass by another teacher in the halls, who acknowledges them with a nod before ducking into one of the art rooms.

Anna hums her agreement. Then she stops in the middle of the hallway, hand reaching out and gently touching Castiel’s bicep through his suit jacket. Her brown eyes are big and worried. “Are you okay, Castiel?”

There’s a hint crawling beneath her words. He comes to a stop too. “What do you mean?”

She looks away, with guilt or embarrassment Castiel can’t quite tell. She’s holding her green tea with shifting fingers. “Well, some of the other teachers and I… we’ve noticed that sometimes you have bruises? And like today, you’re limping a bit? I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t ask.”

Oh.  _ Oh _ .

Castiel blinks. He’s not wholly sure how to tackle this. A side effect of the aforementioned aloofness is others not being equipped with knowledge concerning his personal life; they know he's married to a man named Balthazar and that they’ve been together since school. He hasn't mentioned anything about their split. Mostly because he’d felt like a failure when it happened; it would have simply been another humiliation heaped on the already mountainous pile and so he’d just kept quiet. Gabriel had honored Castiel’s wishes to not tell anyone and it has been easy enough to smile through gritted teeth when anyone had shown a polite interest in Balthazar over the last seven months.

So of course they assume that it’s Balthazar hurting him. Against his will. Because in their eyes, Castiel is not the type of guy to enjoy having his partner’s fingerprints semi-permanently impressed on his skin; a forensic love letter.

It’s a fair assumption. Castiel has done nothing to dissuade them of the idea that he’s completely sane.

Because he and Dean are nothing if not the complete opposite of sane.

And there’s the rub. Castiel can’t exactly tell Anna (and by proxy, the other teachers) that it wasn’t Balthazar, because then there’d be a huge furore about Castiel’s impending divorce and just who it was that created the bruises then? The admission will result in more questions asked than he is capable of answering.

So, he simply forces a bright smile, and says, “I’m fine, thanks Anna. I’ve been doing some renovation on the house and I’m nowhere near as young as I used to be. I’ve got aches in muscles that I didn’t even know existed!” It’s a cookie cutter answer and she clearly isn’t buying the confections that Castiel is selling, but faced with no alternative, accepts his feeble answer (that couldn’t have screamed ‘domestic violence victim’ more if he’d tried) with a watery smile and a promise that she’ll always listen if he needs to talk.

Castiel thanks her (sincerely) and they part ways to get to their respective classrooms.

  
  


***

 

Castiel knows that he and Dean have missed a step somewhere in this weird waltz of theirs.  Well. Maybe  _ missed _ isn't entirely accurate, ‘cause if they'd missed, then they would have fumbled at some point. And the only fumbling that there's been so far is in the rush to get each other naked.

No, it's more of a skip. As in the beat that his heart skips, or skip and a jump-slash-leap. Either way, he can't bring himself to care, can't not want it all, everything that it brings, ultimate ruination that will almost certainly result in their breathing in unison through an iron lung.

Despite his hefty obsession, Castiel’s quietly relieved when John finally puts in an appearance late on Friday, gruff and monosyllabic, but thoroughly glad that his sons have  _ both _ been attending school for a change. As a result,  they’re all going on a short weekend hunt together - John’s way of rewarding Dean and Sam.

Which gives Castiel a little time to himself. Something he's not had much of in the last month and a bit since he and Dean became whatever it is they are now. Inpatients at the same facility, probably.

Before the three of them leave bright and early on the Saturday morning, sun barely above the horizon, John laconically thanks a still-mostly-asleep Castiel for keeping an eye on his boys, though Castiel doubts that he has even the slightest clue just how much of the elder Winchester Castiel has been keeping both eyes on, but that's okay because getting filled with buckshot isn't on his list of things to do this weekend anyways.

What he  _ is  _ gonna do though, is attempt to work through this shit with Balthazar. Once he’s gone back to bed for another several hours.

The desire to be up at an ungodly hour must be a part of the Winchester DNA or something.

The papers are still on the sideboard where Castiel dumped them the week before and he's deliberately tried not to acknowledge them and exactly what they represent. If he thinks about it for too long, then he’ll end up turning himself inside out over it, and that’s happened so many times since they broke up that Castiel’s beginning to think that he’s done some permanent damage in his efforts to right himself again.

So, on Saturday evening, after a quite frankly excellent lie-in, followed by some tidying (two teenage boys make quite the mess, and there’s always been a million more interesting things to do with Dean than cleaning up [the house]), Castiel settles on the couch with a glass of wine, his reading glasses and a quiet house and begins to read through, tagging pages with post-its and making notes in a spiral bound notebook balanced on his right thigh. 

Castiel gets the house entirely, and Balthazar will be paying him some alimony, which he’ll most likely contest. He doesn’t want Balthazar’s money, never did. Just his loyalty and love.  

There’s something on page four that he’s not quite sure about - just a niggly choice of wording and being as Balthazar apparently wants to go the DIY divorce route rather than spending thousands on lawyers - evidenced by the serving of the papers himself - then Castiel has no choice but to discuss it with Balthazar. Of course, there will be courts to notify further along the line, but for now it’s worth asking his husb-- soon to be ex-husband.

A small part of him knows that he’s lying to himself about his reasons for getting in touch with Balthazar, but that’s okay, because he’s always been good at ignoring the more rational parts of himself.

His phone is on the coffee table, next to Sam’s biology textbook. He swipes the pad of his thumb across the screen to unlock it, keys in his pin, and scrolls through his contacts. He hasn’t got many and Balthazar is the only B, so it shouldn’t take long --

Balthazar’s name is no longer there.

_ The fuck? _

Castiel definitely hasn’t deleted him. Why would he?

Blood pounds in his ears. Sure, he and Balthazar aren’t exactly on the best of terms, but even in the immediate wake of Balthazar’s infidelity, Castiel hadn’t deleted the number, common sense for once outweighing his innate desire to be petty.

Also it would have been purely for show; Castiel knows Balthazar’s number off by heart, so there’s no point in deleting it.

Unless he’d done it accidentally? Somehow? Or his phone decided to nut up where he couldn’t and got rid of it; a symbolic gesture to help him move on? All unlikely.

On a hunch, he checks his blocked contacts list. Balthazar’s name isn’t on there, but the number that Castiel recognizes as his, is.

Huh.

He’d have had to block Balthazar’s number first, to stop him from getting in touch, and then delete the number from his phone book. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but Castiel would have remembered, surely.

How odd.

The only other scenario is someone else deleting and blocking the number. But why? And how? Nobody else knows his unlock code (as far as he’s aware). It seems like such a petty daft thing to do, that there’s only three people that he knows would bother with it. Himself, his brother or his -- whatever the fuck Dean is.

Castiel places his wine glass on the table, drags his now-free hand through his hair. He’s gonna have to have a word with the two of them, do a bit of detective work (they’re both going to deny any and all knowledge of course), but Castiel  _ will  _ get to the bottom of this.

First thing’s first though. Balthazar.

It’s easy enough to unblock the number and then before he changes his mind, Castiel takes a deep, grounding breath and taps the call button.

It rings once, twice, getting up to six and just as Castiel thinks it’s about to go to voicemail, there’s a click followed by a static silence.

He licks his dry lips nervously, “Balth?”

“Castiel?” Balthazar sounds small and far away.

“Yeah... Is everything alright?” The memory of Balthazar’s broken fingers has been poking holes in him for the last week and he’d be remiss if he didn’t ask.

“Why are you calling me?”

“I just wanted to --”

Balthazar cuts him off, slicing through Castiel’s explanation and probably a little of his heart too, “It doesn’t matter. There’s no need for you to be calling me. Goodbye, Castiel.”

“Wait!” The line stays connected, but silent, so he presses on, determined to say what needs to be said. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened last time you were here.” He coughs, warmth in his cheeks at the memory, corrects himself, “Well, not the time you served the papers. The one before that.”

There’s an exhalation of breath at the other end and then softly, too softly, Balthazar replies. “Don’t be, Cassie. I deserved that and worse. I was... arrogant beyond belief.”

There’s not really any argument with that, but still. Balthazar sounds genuinely remorseful.

“It’s okay.” Castiel says slowly, “Water under the bridge, right?”

“Right.”

Something catches in his chest, sits there painful and heavy. “Uhm, so I was going through the paperwork --”

“He’s not there with you now, is he?”

“Who?” Though Castiel already knows.

“Dean.”

“Uh, no. Why?” Something needles at him, sharp, tiny pinpricks of annoyance, blood blooming underneath the surface of his skin.

Short silence. Then, “You know that I love you, Castiel.”

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, pulls his glasses off, leaving them dangling from his pinky, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Balthazar --”

“Just… promise me that you’ll be careful. Please?”

There’s an unidentifiable note in his voice that makes Castiel feel like his chest is cracked wide open, blood spilling everywhere. He almost has to look down and check, stops himself at the last second. “O--kay. But could you tell me what I need to be careful about?”

“Just don’t walk around with rose-tinted glasses on like you did with me, okay? You’re so goddamned smart, and I would never say otherwise, but you’re just too naive and trusting. You only want to see the good in people, and that’s okay. But sometimes you need to open your eyes and really look.”

He drops his spectacles down on top of the paperwork and notepad to his right, glances at his empty wine glass.

Whisky next.

“It would help if I knew what I was looking for.”

The line goes quiet, fumbling with static. “Fuck. I’m not-- I can’t. But I’m asking you to trust me on this.”

“Ah, I see.” Castiel says, frustration coloring his tone, going right outside the lines. He’s not sure why he expected Balthazar to suddenly start trusting him to make informed decisions. He never tires of being disappointed, apparently. “Like I trusted you in our marriage, yeah?”

Balthazar sighs, defeated, distortion blowing through the speaker. “I’m an asshole. I get it. And if I could turn back time--”

“Yeah, well you can’t.” Castiel’s had enough. It’s all meaningless, empty words. “I only phoned to find out what paragraph six on page four means. If you would enlighten me, then I could stop talking to you and be happier for it.”

There’s a pause, shuffle of papers, then, “Para six? Err, I am entitled to rescind this offer within three months of the original decree nisi or infraction, whichever is relevant.”

“Infraction?” Castiel says pointedly, hoping that Balthazar will pick up on exactly what his issue with the word is.

“Infidelity.” Balthazar clarifies, barely above a whisper, like a secret.

A muscle in Castiel’s jaw twinges. “I want it to say that.”

“Okay.” Balthazar says, supplicatory. “Okay, I’ll get it changed asap and ship the amended papers over to you.”

“Great.” Castiel says tightly. “I also don’t want your money, just the house, so you can take the alimony payments out too. Thanks.” Then he’s hanging up before Balthazar can protest, a bitter taste left in his mouth.

He re-blocks Balthazar’s number. Easier that way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you yet again for all the lovely comments <3.
> 
> I've been ill the past couple of days, so this chapter may just be a jumbled, fevered mess; it'll most likely be getting edited in the near future. Please go easy on me!
> 
> I'll respond to the comments on the previous chapter tomorrow, when I'm (hopefully) feeling better.

It’s late on Sunday night - approaching the time that he really should be thinking about going to bed - when there’s a knock at his door. He’s spent most of the day lazing about in one of Dean’s band shirts (yeah yeah) and a loose pair of sweatpants, marathoning some ghost hunting show on Netflix, but not actually watching it, because he’s been too damned busy thinking about the phone call with Balthazar. 

He never asked about the broken fingers.

And there had been something about the remorse in Balthazar’s tone. Not only did it feel genuine, but he’d sounded a little… not scared exactly? But maybe a bit jittery? Which is not like him. He works in a high-powered, high stress environment and now he’s on edge about their divorce?

Nah.

And of course, there’s the question of who blocked the number.

Gabriel may be a lot of things, but he’s never directly interfered between Castiel and Balthazar. Though, he did smash the windshield of Balthazar’s brand new Mustang with a baseball bat when Castiel told him about his husband’s cheating.

Which is to say that subtlety isn’t exactly Gabriel’s strong suit. Realistically, he wouldn’t have done it. And Castiel knows that he didn’t block the number himself. Why would he?

So that just leaves the final suspect. And it’s almost definitely him waiting on the other side of the door.

Castiel hesitates, dithering in the foyer, picking at a corner of the sideboard with a recently healed fingernail.

There’s another series of faster, more insistent knocks.

The shame of it all is that every fiber of Castiel’s being is demanding that he open the damn door. He’s missed the fuck out of Dean and all he wants is to let him in and kiss the fucker senseless, but there’s something curling around him, thick and heavy like a fog, stopping him from doing just that.

His phone starts vibrating across the surface of the coffee table in the sitting room, low murmur of it inexorable.

Fuck it.

He unchains the door, swings it wide.

It’s Dean, phone in hand, wearing old worn jeans and a red check flannel over a plain black t-shirt. His cinnamon freckles seem even more prominent against his tan skin; indicative of how he’s caught the sun over the weekend. As always, he looks unfairly handsome.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean’s gaze immediately fixes on the shirt Castiel’s wearing, long lashes dipping in a way that shouldn’t be seductive. “ _ Goddamn _ , I love you in my clothes.”

Something twists inside him, low and hot in his gut.

This has never been fair.

Castiel leans against the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest; a weak attempt at fortifying his resolve against the barrage of  _ Dean _ ; to stop himself from reaching out and touching. “You came over here to tell me that?”

“Not officially,” Dean smirks, so damn sure of himself, eyes heated and glittering in the dim porch lights. “I came over here to get Sammy’s biology book, but it could take us a while to find it?” He crowds into Castiel’s space, overwhelming and smelling so goddamn good; fresh pine and outdoors and an underlying hint of sweat.

“But I know exactly where it is,” Castiel teases, rhythm of their flirting returning to him appallingly easy, the pull too strong to resist. “So you can hurry back to your dad; wouldn’t wanna keep you after all.”

Dean sticks his bottom lip out in a mock pout. “You don’t wanna keep me?”

And  _ Christ _ , but Castiel’s only human.

He yanks Dean in by the front of his flannel shirt, slamming the door shut behind them, and Dean’s walking him backwards, until he’s as far as he can go, spine making contact with the wall, and the fierce thrill of panic that lights up in his veins makes him shiver. Dean presses in impossibly close, pinning Castiel’s hips with his own, holding Castiel in place with the weight of his body whilst he becomes preoccupied with Castiel’s pulsepoint, heartbeat drawn to the surface with his mouth. One hand fisted in Dean’s hair, the other still curled in Dean’s flannel, Castiel whimpers.

“Missed you so fucking much, Cas.” Dean murmurs, teeth bared against Castiel’s collarbone, rough, scraping over the skin. The barest touch slopes over the curve of his ass under the waistband of his sweats.

“Missed you too.” Castiel pants, tugs Dean’s head back to look at him. “Don’t know how I coped without your coffee for two whole days.”

A grin spreads across Dean’s face, “My coffee, huh?”

Castiel nods, swallows hard, dry throat clicking. “Can’t imagine what else there could possibly be to miss.”

Dean grinds against him, hard, thick length of him in his jeans. “No, me neither.”

Castiel feels a huge swell of affection for the man he's currently sharing breath with. He loves that they can be like this, easy and flirty in one moment, scorching and dangerous in the next. Dean is gorgeous and smart and good with his hands and he clearly adores Castiel--

But. But, if he blocked Balthazar’s number - which may in and of itself be fairly minor issue - what else has he been doing behind Castiel’s back?

Castiel pulls a deep breath into his lungs. Fuck. “How long do you have before your dad will be expecting you back?”

“A few minutes.” Dean’s palms leave Castiel’s ass in favour of tugging his sweats down around his thighs. Dean gets a hand on Castiel’s hard dick, hot, tight pressure and firm strokes bringing him close embarrassingly fast. “Better make it quick.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

If Castiel doesn’t say it now, he’s never going to.

“Dean.” He tries, fucking up into Dean’s fist. He moans, tries again, “Dean, stop.”

Dean’s eyes flick to his then, green swallowed to the pupil, “What is it, Cas?” His hand stops obediently, but he doesn’t let go, a constant tease that is doing nothing for Castiel’s resolve.

Fuck. “Did you block Balthazar’s number on my phone?” Castiel isn’t sure what he’s expecting. Outright denial. Evasion. Distraction.

Certainly not for Dean to go, “Yeah. Why?”

It drives all the breath from Castiel’s lungs, like a goddamn sucker punch.

What the fuck?

On instinct, he shoves Dean away, hastily pulls his sweats back up.  “Well that’s my question to you actually.  _ Why _ ?”

Dean shrugs, unrepentant. “You don’t need that douche in your life.”

That as may be, but still. “That’s not for you to say, Dean. You don’t get to decide.”

Dean recoils like he’s been slapped, like he genuinely didn’t expect this kind of reaction from Castiel. “Cas, why are you pissed about this? The guy treated you like shit. Why the fuck would you wanna stay in contact with him? He’s giving you the house, which is all you wanted from him, right? I don’t see what the problem is.”

Castiel has a moment to digest, before realization dawns, “Wait, how do you know about that? Have you been reading the paperwork? It’s none of your business, Dean!”

Dean has the audacity to look affronted. “It became my business when I got involved with you, Castiel.”

“No.” Castiel says, shaking his head. “No, Dean. Any issues that Balthazar and I have, they’re nothing to do with --” He gestures back and forth between them, “--whatever this is.”

He realizes the mistake he’s made as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“Whatever this is.” Dean repeats tonelessly.

Guilt tugs at Castiel’s chest. He reaches out, fingertips grazing Dean’s shirt as he pulls back out of range, hands held up in the universal sign for surrender, “Dean, I--”

“Nah, man. You said it.  _ Whatever this is _ clearly means fuck all to you. So I’m just a dick. Sorry I interfered between you and your  _ husband _ .”

And then he’s walking away, slamming the door behind him, leaving Castiel standing there wondering just how the fuck this got turned around on him.

  
  


***

  
  


Castiel doesn’t see Dean on Monday or Tuesday. 

Well. That’s not strictly true. He sees Dean all right. Mostly - he strongly suspects - because Dean wants Castiel to see him, but not be in a position to say anything, lest he be a terrible hypocrite or out himself as the godawful teacher-who-fucks-a-student cliche that he is.

On Monday morning, as the kids file out of his class, chatting excitedly about important fifteen-year-old things, he’s sitting at his desk with a stack of pop quizzes that he’s planning to spend the next period marking, when he catches sight of Dean outside his classroom, leaning against the lockers, aiming that infuriatingly attractive smile at Lisa goddamn Braeden. Castiel watches for a moment as Dean says something that makes her throw her head back in overexaggerated flirtatious laughter. There’s no way that this is accidental; it’s clearly a deliberate manoeuvre on Dean’s part, some kind of fucking statement. One that Castiel hears loud and clear. Especially when Lisa reaches out, back of her fingers delicately stroking over the front of Dean’s Letterman jacket. The jacket that he made Castiel wear as he fucked him, declared him his.

In his mind’s eye, Castiel’s up and out of his seat, striding out into the hallway and dragging Dean away from her and towards him.

In reality, he sits at his desk, silently seething, jealousy coiled in his gut like a serpent, all venom and sharp fangs.

 

 

***

 

 

On Tuesday, Dean shoves past Castiel in the cafeteria, shoulder checking him and making him drop his coffee, black liquid splashing, scalding heat of it soaking his pant leg. He bites his tongue and says nothing against the bubbling anger, heavy and suffocating.

Crowley watches the whole thing with barely disguised suspicion.

 

 

***

 

 

On Wednesday, Dean enters his class a full five minutes after the bell rings, chin raised in subtle defiance, a silent dare for Castiel to say something.

Fine.

If Dean wants a reaction, Castiel will give him one.

Feigning bored indifference, he says, “Mr Winchester you’re late. See that it doesn’t happen again,” and then he’s turning to the blackboard, trying to ignore Dean’s eyes growing heavier and heavier on him, weighing him down with a thousand unspoken words.

He silently pats himself on the back, even though his shaky grip on the chalk is tenuous at best.

Finished writing a few key points, he turns back to face the class, channelling the version of himself from two weeks ago that had found the strength to ignore Dean. He’s spent the entirety of his time with Dean giving him everything that he wants. It’s time for a regime change.

That decided, he claps his hands together, determined to see this through. “Right, we’re going to be discussing Blake’s ‘A Poison Tree’ today, who’s going to start the discussion?”

Silence. He doesn't dare look in Dean’s direction for help, even though he knows Dean has some great ideas and insight. He’s not quite  _ that  _ determined.

Nobody else looks willing though, and Castiel is already feeling awkward enough without allowing the silence to stretch on past everybody’s comfort. He exhales heavily, defeated, but he knows when to pick his battles. This is one he’s okay with losing. “Okay, I’ll get us started then. So I’m hoping that you all managed to pick up on the metaphors in this one?”

There are a few reluctant nods scattered around the classroom.

He continues, “Good, because for next week’s homework, you’ll all be writing essays about Blake’s use of metaphors in both this poem and the one from last week.”

There’s a sudden spike in noise as some students groan, others start to chat to their neighbors and friends.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Castiel says good-naturedly, giving the teenagers a few more seconds to air their grievances, until it tapers back off into quiet. “Actually having to do something for your education sucks. But I promise you it’s an easy assignment. For instance, the apple is a metaphor for the narrator’s vengeance --”

Dean, in his usual seat, leans over to whisper something in Lisa’s ear that has her giggling high-pitched and girly, eyelashes fluttering. She places a neatly manicured hand on Dean’s forearm.

“--Because he continues to dwell in the same hatred, the apple grows every day--”

Dean barks a sharp laugh at something that Lisa says in return.

“--Then there’s the tree itself, which depicts the narrator’s loss of patience, underneath which he kills his enemy.”

There’s a short pause filled with the scratching of pens on paper as the class furiously jot down Castiel’s analysis. However, there’s one student in particular who isn’t scribbling away and is instead, leaning back in his chair, eventually drawing every single pair of eyes in the room, Castiel’s included, “So you’re saying that the narrator is an angry, bitter old man who’s cold as fuck and ultimately alone because his selfish actions have consequences - in this case, a very serious one?”

Tiny tiny knives, slicing open old scars. Death by a thousand cuts. Lingchi.

For a long moment, all Castiel can hear is his own heartbeat. Then the noise of nervous laughter comes rushing in and he’s back in the moment, in front of a class of thirty teenagers, tension settling thick and stifling in the air, a thunderstorm in the making.

Fuck  _ this _ .

“Mr Winchester, see me after class.”

  
  
  


***

 

 

Castiel shuts the door behind the final senior, twists the knob to lock it. He has a few minutes before his sophomore class shows up and perhaps it’s unrealistically optimistic (it is), but he wants this shit with Dean sorted by then. He returns to his desk, stands just off the left of it, in front of Dean, who’s remained in his seat this entire time, “So.” He spreads his hands wide in a helpless gesture, “What in the actual fuck are you doing, Dean?”

Dean smiles up at him blandly, insolent as hell and Castiel isn’t sure whether he wants to punch him or fuck him. “What’s up, Mr Novak?”

“You’re acting like a goddamn child. And why? Because I’m not happy that you hacked into my phone and deleted my --” he stops at the look in Dean’s eye, corrects himself, “Balthazar’s number?”

“I wouldn't say that it was a  _ hack _ , Cas. I figured out your pin. It’s hardly the height of espionage.”

Irritation flares in his chest, “Are you missing the point or are you being deliberately obtuse, because I think we both know that you’re smarter than this.”

Dean shrugs, still smiling, but there’s something behind his eyes; a kind of violence that excites Castiel as much as it frightens him. “You seem to be under the impression that I have no right to know what’s going on in your life. Despite me warning you that this is an all-or-nothing relationship.”

“So that’s it? Your way or the highway?”

Dean looks almost apologetic as he rises to his feet, moving with the same lethal grace as always. “I did warn you.”

Castiel’s brain is stuck on a loop, rewinding and replaying the images of Dean and Lisa together. “An exclusive relationship then? That included in your ‘all’?”

Dean’s eyes turn dark, looking at Castiel like all he has to do is pull the correct zipper to make Castiel spill his guts. “Have you been operating under the misapprehension that it’s not?”

Castiel fights the urge to mention Lisa outright; he’s already laid the trail of gunpowder for Dean, that would just be lighting the goddamn fuse for him. “And if I was?” Castiel says instead, deliberately testing, though he’s not entirely sure why. There’s a razor-sharp edge to Dean’s words and Castiel knows he’s treacherously close to cutting himself to ribbons on it, but he kind of wants to push against it as hard as he can without actually breaking the skin, “I mean, say that I had been seeing someone else--”

“I’d kill him, then you.”

A hot, thrilling flash of terror spears through Castiel at the declaration. Dean’s deadly serious and Castiel’s turned on by the vehemence, the desire, the wrongness; the idea that someone wants him that badly - beyond all reason and morality. It’s perverse and sick and warped, but it’s all Castiel’s got to cling to as they stand there facing off in Castiel’s classroom, with a bunch of fifteen year olds gathering outside waiting to be taught Shakespeare.

Fuck.

There must be something written in the expression on Castiel’s face for Dean to read, some kind of validation, because then he’s effortlessly eliminating personal space, palming the side of Castiel’s face in a tender gesture at odds with his words mere seconds ago. “Yeah. You’re mine, Cas. Just remember that the next time you decide to throw a temper tantrum.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments on the last chapter made my tiny black heart swell about ten sizes, so thank you.
> 
> I've finally decided on the ending for this shitshow, and I think it's gonna be maybe another five chapters. It's also gonna be a little (read: a lot) fucked up.

As soon as Castiel steps across the threshold of his home, he’s immediately enveloped in the delicious cosy smell of home cooking. Garlic and rosemary and fresh bread. It's comforting and heartening, but also rather unnerving, because nobody should be in his house, let alone cooking delicious food in it.

As far as he had been aware, nobody had keys to the new lock, but knowing what he knows now? Of fucking course Dean made himself a set. Because overstepping boundaries is something Dean excels in, and it’s not like Castiel didn’t know that from the very first moment that the bastard winked at him.

He should be angry about this latest discovery, but he can’t quite find the energy. It's pretty low on his list of shit to be pissed at right now. Right down there with Gabriel having stolen the last chocolate chip muffin out of the basket in the teacher’s lounge. He knows that Castiel hates blueberry, the fucker.

Besides, Sam and Dean are here all the time anyway, it kinda makes sense. Castiel probably would have given them a key sooner or later. Dean just circumvented the process.

He sets his messenger bag down against a leg of the coffee table in the sitting room. Looks around. There’s nothing out of place - nothing to indicate that anything out of the ordinary is happening here. He loosens his tie as he meanders towards the kitchen, in absolutely no hurry to get there. He drapes it on the back of the couch, pops open the top button of his shirt.

There’s the sound of movement coming from the dining room, so, heart trip-hammering against his ribcage (he’s only  _ assuming  _ it’s Dean and/or Sam, it could be someone else who’s broken in and decided to cook for him; there was an episode like this on Criminal Minds once) he ducks in to see who it is.

“Hey, Castiel.” Sam looks up from where he’s laying the table, grins, dimples popping. “Dean's in the kitchen.”

Uh huh.

So no murdering psychopaths in the house then. Unless Dean has a hobby that Castiel has yet to be made aware of.

He’d probably excel at that too.

He manages a genuine smile for the younger Winchester; it’s not his fault that his brother refuses to adhere to social norms. “Thanks Sam.”

He stands in the doorway to the kitchen, hesitant. He’s still a little riled up from their encounter from earlier and no amount of discussing Shakespearean vengeance had dampened the white hot sense of injustice that Dean’s words had instilled in him.

But he can do this, Dean needs to know that he can’t just act this way and Castiel’s gonna accept it. Dean wants to be a grown up in an adult relationship (not that Castiel’s the expert) then he needs to understand that you can just do what… well, what he did.

Poker face. Except Castiel’s holding a pair of threes and Dean no doubt has a royal fucking flush.

Dean’s shoving a tray into the wall oven, mitts on, when Castiel finally enters the kitchen, and it's so frighteningly domestic, that just for one aching moment, Castiel wants to forget it all and just hug and fuck and go back to normal.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean smiles that warm smile, the one that makes Castiel’s stomach tie itself in knots. “I thought I'd cook us all dinner.”

Wrong-footed as always, Castiel isn’t entirely sure how to proceed. A large part of him wants to kick off where Dean left him before, but he doesn’t want to argue in front of Sam. Instead, he lets the silence grow between them until it’s all either one of them can hear.

Dean, sensing that Castiel isn’t going to contribute anything to the conversation to keep it going, simply turns his winning smile up to eleven, “I hope you like beef stew and dumplings. And fresh bread.”

Rather than asking how Dean had found the required time to make a goddamn stew and bread from scratch, instead he says, “Your dad not home?”

Dean leans against the counter, weight braced on his arms, long legs out in front, crossed over at the ankles, the very picture of casualness. “Nah, he left again yesterday. Needs to be in Philly for some kind of pitch.”

Castiel nods, slowly, unsure of what to add. This isn’t going the way he’d anticipated. He had hoped that Dean would still be argumentative, so that he’d have something to play off of. Instead he’s met with this disarming, charming version that could not be more opposite (or any less hot) than the Dean from earlier.

He needs to regroup, figure out a strategy for this, “I should, uh --” He gestures behind himself, “get changed.” He turns away, and is nearly in the relative safety of the dining room when Dean calls his name, quiet and careful.

Castiel stops, but doesn’t dare face Dean. He waits silently for the follow up.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says softly, almost too softly for Castiel to hear. “You’re the last person I’d wanna hurt or upset.”

He almost tells Dean not to be sorry, because it was pretty fucking hot, but then the part of his brain not controlled by his dick (it’s got a pretty small surface area, comparatively) finally decides to show up, “Yeah?” Castiel asks, allowing the bitterness to curdle in his veins. “Who’s the first then? Because I feel sorry for that poor fucker if I’m only getting your Z-game here.” He half turns, just so he can see the look on Dean’s face. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Dean. I wasn’t the one flirting with easy fucking targets to make you jealous. I wasn’t the one throwing a ‘temper tantrum’. You were. I was right to be annoyed at you going through my phone and no amount of you turning your issues around on me is gonna change that.”

Dean takes one careful step forward. “You’re right, Cas. Okay? You’re right and I’m sorry. I acted like a dick. It’s just --” He inhales a deep breath, “You drive me so crazy. I wanna look after you and when it feels like you’re not letting me, I just… I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Some of the tension from his shoulders leaks away. “I can look after myself, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know. But when we got together, I told you Cas. I told you that you’d have to let me take care of you.”

It’s both a fair point and a tiny crack in his resolve, which will undoubtedly soon force a splinter until the whole thing lies in tiny shimmering shards at his feet.

“I love you, Cas.” Dean says, quiet and raw.

Yeah, there it goes. Exploding, slivers everywhere, a tiny nail bomb.

Why the fuck is he fighting this again? So Dean messed up a little and then overreacted? So he’s got issues? Castiel’s got subscriptions.

Dean slowly closes the gap between them, giving Castiel a chance to run, but he can’t move, can’t be the one to crunch the fragments of his resolve underfoot. Dean brings a trembling hand up to Castiel’s face, his own laid bare similarly to when he’d recited Blake for Castiel, vulnerable and young and so painfully fucking beautiful. “Please, Cas. Let me love you. I promise that I won’t keep fucking up.”

“God, Dean.” Castiel chokes, eyes burning. “I love you, too.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


The next few weeks are pretty close to perfect. Dean has football practise three times a week, a game every other Friday, so on the practise nights, he comes by Castiel’s classroom (sometimes with Sam, sometimes without), waits whilst Castiel finishes up for the day, does some marking and/or lesson planning, and they walk out together before they drive in their separate cars to their homes less than ten feet from one another. And then of course, Dean comes over anyway.

Dean suggests on more than one occasion that they all just drive in together; citing the reason that they’re neighbors and therefore it will be easy enough to explain away. Castiel tells him no as always, that it’s not worth it for the suspicion it would create, and each time, Dean’s jaw gets tighter, but he says nothing else.

Of course, for every right thing they do, they must be doing ten things wrong and so it was destined to all fall apart, really. 

As Halloween approaches, one night when Dean’s still at practise and Castiel’s marking some homework at his desk, his door opens and he looks up, greeting dying on his lips as he takes in Crowley’s presence, not Dean’s.

The door closes behind him with a soft click, and Castiel has to remind himself to keep breathing; Crowley’s one of those people who seems to suck all the atmosphere out of the room before he’s even opened his mouth. “Hello, Castiel.”

“Hello, Crowley.” Castiel caps his pen and sets it down atop the stack of papers, feigning a calmness that he’s not feeling. “How can I help you?”

Crowley waves a dismissive hand, “Fergus, please. We’re about to become business partners, it’s only proper that we’re on first name terms.”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure I follow?”

Crowley tilts his head, considering. “Hm. You're really not, are you? Well okay then. I’ll make this very simple for you. So simple that an English teacher could understand, yeah?”

He cuts Crowley a nasty look, but says nothing.

“I know that you and the Winchester boy are going at it hammer and tong --” He stops, regards Castiel again, “alright,  _ fucking _ . Sheesh. You Americans are so crude.”

The blood in Castiel’s veins turns to ice. 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

Crowley continues, “So I’ve come here to blackmail you in the good old fashioned way, because it’s fun and you two have made it far too easy for me. You’re going to get that rich  _ ex? _ husband of yours to anonymously wire me some money.” Crowley pauses, smiles at Castiel in a way that makes his bones itch. “I say  _ some _ money. What I mean is a  _ whole lot  _ of money, or else I’ll be going to the principal with my concerns about student-teacher relations.”

Is there any point in denying it? What would an innocent person do? Does it matter at this stage? Although Castiel doesn’t know Crowley that well, what he  _ does _ know is that Crowley is meticulous and therefore unlikely to come to Castiel with baseless accusations.

Castiel swallows hard, throat dry. “What,” he croaks,“What proof do you have?”

“Good question.” Crowley grins, smug as hell. “Proof by mathematical induction. Because it’s all about providing a base case and the rule of inference and all that.” He steps further inside the room, close enough that it’s taking everything that Castiel has not to back away. “I have a tonne of eyewitness who have seen you and that Winchester boy eye-fucking each other into eternity.”

Castiel snorts derisively, that’s hardly proof of anything. 

“Ah ah, don’t be so quick to dismiss. I also have a rather incendiary recording of the younger Winchester discussing how much time he and his brother spend at your house.”

“We’re neighbors,” Castiel says tonelessly. “Their dad is away a lot. I often cook for them.”

It’s fine, it’ll be fine. The prick has nothing.

“Is that all you do for them, Castiel? Honestly? Because,” He reaches into the inside pocket of his heavy black coat, produces a stack of about ten photographs, tosses them onto Castiel’s desk. “I’m pretty sure that eighteen year old dick isn’t one of your five a day. Or maybe it is in your household. Who knows, I’m not judging.” 

Castiel spreads the photos out, fingertips stick-tacky against the print. The view is from his front lawn through a narrow gap in the dining room curtains, and it’s a series of images of him on his knees, warm velvet weight of Dean’s dick in his mouth, Dean’s fingers twisted in his hair, Dean throwing his head back as Castiel chokes on the thick length of him, mouth stretched obscenely wide. They’re both naked and in two or three of the pictures, with the way Castiel’s arching his back, he can see the shiny black base of the plug buried deep in his ass. The one that Dean had made him wear all day at work. 

Objectively, they’re good photographs.

Castiel feels a sick laugh building in his throat. 

“You can keep those for posterity, if you wish.” Crowley says, looking over Castiel’s shoulder. “They’re attractive snapshots. You two are rather enticing together, I must admit.” His fingertips ghost across the nape of Castiel’s neck, and in an instant, Castiel is up and out of his chair, backing the fuck away, eyes wide.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” He spits, heart fluttering in his chest, pathetically hoping that Dean will turn up any second now, get him the fuck away from this asshole.

“Feisty.” Crowley says with a grin, eyes skimming over Castiel’s body in a way that makes him desperate for a shower. “Perhaps we can negotiate in other ways if you wish to pay less in capital.”

The insinuation slithers up his spine, settling in the base of his skull, alongside the steadily growing panic, “In your dreams.”

“Frequently.” Crowley admits, “But I can see that the option is not one for you and I don’t really want to have my fingers broken either, so I’ll just take the money.”

There’s a low buzzing sound building in the back of Castiel’s mind, thick with static. He licks his dry lips, stalling for time. Dean will be here any minute. “Broken fingers?”

“Oh,” Crowley looks positively gleeful. “You haven’t worked that part out yet? That’ll be fun for you when you do, darling.”

Cryptic bullshit aside, “I’m not giving you any money Crowley.”

“I know, sweet. That’s the beauty of it. It’s your husband who’ll be paying. And doesn’t he deserve to after what he did to you, hmm?”

Was there public service announcement when Castiel wasn’t paying attention? “How the fuck--”

“Eyes everywhere.” 

Apparently. Castiel deliberately doesn’t look at the photographs. 

“How much?” He asks through gritted teeth. “How much to make you go the fuck away?”

“I feel like I’d be doing myself a disservice if I asked for anything less than a million dollars.”

Castiel’s intake of breath is so sharp that it hurts his lungs. “A million -- ? You’re insane. Balthazar doesn’t have that kind of money.”

Crowley shrugs, unperturbed, “I know for a fact that he does, so.”

There’s no arguing with that. It’s true. The money Balthazar was proposing to give to Castiel in their divorce settlement was pretty much the same figure.

“Where are you getting all these ‘facts’ and ‘eyes’, Crowley? Don’t you have anything better to do than to stalk me?”

“Not if it’s going to net me a million dollars, no.”

Fuck. Where the fuck is Dean? His eyes flick to the clock on the wall above the door behind Crowley. He should have been here ten minutes ago. Typical. The one day that he’s late is the one that Castiel could do with him being here.

“I’m sure prince charming will be along in a minute, but for now I need an answer.” Crowley intones, looking bored, but there’s a fringe of tension there, right on the outskirts.

“Fine.” Castiel grates, out of options. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s the spirit.” Crowley grins, checks his wristwatch. “Well, I’d better be on my merry way. You have a week--”

It’s then that Dean appears in the doorway, damp hair curling up at the ends, no doubt fresh from the locker room shower, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Err.” His eyes look to Castiel and then Crowley, then back again. “I just needed to ask some questions about the homework? I mean, I can come back another time if you’re busy.”

“Wow. I’d almost believe it,” Crowley laughs, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he passes. “Very convincing. You ever considered a career in the theater?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes around nothing. The expression on his face is one of utter bewilderment. 

Crowley continues, out in the hallway now, “But seriously. You boys need to be more careful. I’d hate for someone to take advantage.”

  
  
  


***

  
  


“I’m gonna rip his fucking lungs out!” Dean yells, kicking an innocent dining chair, sending it skidding across the hardwood floor. “Who the fuck does that little creep think he is?!”

A soon-to-be-successful blackmailer, apparently.

“Dean.” Castiel says from where he’s sitting, massaging his temples, elbows on the table. He’s had a headache since they reached the school parking lot and he’d shakily begged Dean to wait until they got home before he told him what was going on. “Losing your temper isn’t gonna help us figure out a solution.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks. “What do you mean ‘figure out a solution’, Cas? I’d say the solution is pretty straightforward!”

Castiel looks up at him sharply, “You’re suggesting that we give him the money?”

“It’s not  _ our _ money he’s after.” Dean shrugs, fanning the photos out on the dining table, stares down at them, transfixed in that same morbid way Castiel had been. He lifts his gaze, green eyes suddenly softer, “But it is _ your  _ career that’s gonna suffer if we don’t find a way of paying the limey cunt.”

Dean has a point. And Balthazar  _ had _ been willing to give away all of that money - in alimony payments and not all at once, but still - so hopefully it won’t be too hard to convince him to let Castiel have it. It’s barely a fraction of the money that Balthazar has.

Of course, he can’t explain what he needs it for. Balthazar would probably just laugh and slam the phone down. 

But. “What happens if Crowley decides that it’s not enough? What happens if in a month he wants more?”

Dean seems to consider this and then says, “We’ll have to make sure that we get all the copies of the pictures, the recording. Everything that Crowley has that he can use against us.”

“But we’ll never know for sure.” Castiel asserts. “We’ll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  
Dean’s quiet again for a long moment. “Get the money together.  _ I’ll  _ go and meet him. Make sure that he understands the terms of our agreement - and the consequences of breaking it - perfectly.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a little longer than usual. I know where I want this story to go, but getting there is proving to be a challenge. I had to step away for a few days and just ignore it to try and figure out wtf I'm doing. 
> 
> This chapter covers a lot of ground without saying much, but there are a few important bits in here.
> 
> Thank you for all the great comments on the previous chapter. There are a few of you who have the right idea about a couple of elements (which was so cool to read), but I'm pretty certain that the ending should still be quite the surprise (and not in the deus ex machina kinda way either, 'cause I hate that shit).

Castiel can’t pinpoint the exact moment when his life went from a mundane routine existence to something closely resembling a heist movie, but he does know that the catalyst for it was cherry fucking pie.

Sitting alone in Dean’s monster car, eyes trained on the doors of a tiny bank that probably doesn’t even have CCTV or bullet resistant glass, Castiel feels like a getaway driver, though what he’s supposed to be getting away from isn’t making itself known other than in the form of a horrible squirmy feeling down low in his gut.

It had been raining on their way to bumfuck, Colorado, and the corners of the windshield are still wet with droplets where the wipers couldn’t reach. He’s got the passenger side window open and the scents of fir and cypress roll in on the faint breeze.

He should’ve stayed home. Watched a rerun of unsolved mysteries. Maybe he would have seen a segment about himself and whatever the fuck he's doing.

There had been no way that he wasn’t coming along to this though, despite Dean’s insistence otherwise. After all, it’s Castiel who has the most to lose in all of this. In theory, at least. He’s beginning to wonder exactly why his career is worth a million dollars, when it would probably take the rest of his working life to come with grasping distance of that figure.

Why the fuck did Balthazar offer it in alimony in the first place? And why did he agree to wire a similar figure to a nameless account when Castiel couldn’t offer an adequate explanation (because, really, it had been a pathetically whispered plea, while Dean stood guard)?

During that phone call, Castiel yet again didn’t ask how Balthazar broke his fingers; this time it wasn’t because he forgot, but instead because he felt it wise to remain quiet on the matter until he has more pieces of the puzzle. Otherwise he’s just going to keep scrabbling around in the dark aimlessly, without any real idea of where he needs to be looking.

Crowley and Dean went inside the bank (Castiel had been expecting a Western Union) approximately twenty minutes ago and there’s no way it’s that busy in there (this is a one-horse town where the horse gave up the ghost a long time ago), so it’s likely to be the sheer amount of money that they’re having an issue with.

The rain is just starting up again, quiet patter of it on the Impala’s roof the only sound that Castiel can hear. Someone leaves the general store diagonally across from the bank, which catches in Castiel’s peripheral vision, but it’s only a momentary distraction. They get in their off-road vehicle and there’s a quiet rumble as the motor starts, which fades the further away it drives. And then Castiel is in the only vehicle on the road.

It’s topping out at thirty-seven minutes when Dean and Crowley finally emerge and dash across the cracked asphalt, rain coming down a little harder now, looking like they’ve just robbed the place - which in a way they probably have - and it’s only then that Castiel notices that Crowley isn’t carrying a briefcase (or a sack with a dollar sign on the outside).

He remembers reading somewhere that a million dollars is stupidly heavy.

The driver-side door creaks its protest loudly when it’s opened and Dean slides in, rain darkening his hair down against his head, thickening his eyelashes, tiny drops of wetness clinging, and he’s smiling, beaming at Castiel like it’s easy, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

It’s contagious and Castiel finds himself smiling back, completely helpless against the syrupy warmth steadily drowning any and all doubt.

Behind Castiel the rear door slams shut hard enough that it shakes the whole car, all rock-a-bye-baby, and Castiel can almost hear the audible snap in both the branch and Dean’s patience as he shoots Crowley a  _ look _ . Crowley holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry princess, forgot how important this tin can is to you.”

“So what happened then?” Castiel asks before Dean can get blood splatter over the nicely maintained interior.

“Crowley’s sent the money to another one of his accounts.” Dean answers, key in the ignition. “So now, I’m going to go to his place with him and get all the copies and make sure that he’s not bullshitting us.”

There was no  _ we _ in that. “I’m not invited?”

Dean peels away from the curb and guides the car down the narrow road. “Cas, do you actually wanna come? Like honestly?”

He hears a creak in the leather as Crowley shifts his weight, hand appearing on Castiel’s headrest. Castiel shrinks away, shoulder crushed against the door. “Of course, you’re more than welcome to join us, Castiel. Could do with some eye candy after staring at his ugly mug all afternoon--”

“Crowley.” Dean growls, a warning, low and lethal.  Church bells ring (Crowley’s funeral) in the distance.

“Too easy.” Crowley laughs, settling back.

Castiel says nothing. It’s easier that way.

  
  


***

  
  


It’s the Monday after Halloween, decorations still getting swept away and pulled down by the janitorial staff.  Most of the teachers are gathered in the lounge, red-eyed and world-weary, discussing their thanksgiving plans, like they’re not a variance on a theme, when Principal Singer enters holding some sheets of paper that have been folded into three equal parts, most likely a letter of some sort.

“Good morning, everyone.” He waits a moment for quiet, for the undivided attention of the room - every inch  _ the teacher _ in a room full of teachers.. “So I've got a bit of news, which could be good or bad depending on how you felt about the man, but Mr. Crowley is no longer a part of the Glen View teaching staff.”

Murmurs spring to life all around. Gabriel nudges Castiel with his elbow, but he isn’t focused on much besides the sound of his own heartbeat. The commotion around him continues, even if everything in Castiel is very very still.

“Why'd he leave?” someone asks, not sounding particularly sorry about it, just mildly curious. Crowley was far from popular, but he knew his shit, showed no signs of ever not being a math teacher, and so it’s strange (as far as everyone else is concerned) that he’d simply  _ leave _ .

Principal Singer looks down at the note, peering over the top of his reading glasses, “Just says that he came into some money and that he's taking a leave of absence.”

Yeah, he came into  _ Balthazar’s _ money.

Castiel takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee. It’s his own (and therefore shit). Which only serves to remind him (like he’s forgotten) of the fact that he hasn’t seen Dean since he unceremoniously dropped Castiel off on Saturday; unusual in normal circumstances, but in the current ones? Well, it practically screams ‘WARNING WARNING’ through a fucking megaphone from the summit of a mountain.

There’s relief there in the the knowledge that Crowley isn’t gonna be around for a while, of course there is; the man was a fuckwit, but still. There’s a sense of unease too that Castiel can’t shake and it’s spreading like blood from a bullet wound.

He’s always believed in a fence at the top of a cliff, rather than a hearse at the bottom, but it’s too late for that now, it’s been too late for months, and panic seizes in his chest.

What the fuck did Dean do?

  
  


***

 

Rather than asking the question to the one person capable of answering (read: evading) it, Castiel decides to listen to his own advice, and elects to wait until he has more pieces so that he can go to Dean with  _ at least  _ a semi-complete jigsaw; it’s harder to deny the existence of something whole, than it is mere pieces that exist independently. 

A picture is worth a thousand words after all.

(Crowley taught him that much).

So he watches. He opens his goddamn eyes for perhaps the first time since he and Dean got together, and resolves to look beyond green eyes and freckles.

 

***

 

It’s lunch time in the cafeteria when Castiel sees Dean in all his popular quarterback glory. He’s surrounded by both boys and girls, all vying for his attention and there’s an ugly satisfaction in knowing that Castiel’s the only one who gets it. Dean is his as much as he is Dean’s and it makes him feel dangerous. Powerful.

_ But this is precisely the problem _ . He needs to look past all that, needs to peek behind the curtain and find out just what the fuck is going on while he’s usually too distracted to care.

Sam approaches the table where Dean’s seated, cheerleaders and football players hemming him in on both sides, and slings an arm around his big brother’s shoulders, casual familiarity that makes Castiel feel warm for an entirely different (more wholesome) reason. Sam leans in, whispering something in Dean’s ear and then pulls back enough to point directly at another table.

Castiel follows the line of sight to Cole Trenton and his friends. Trenton’s a bit of a dick, but not a known bully and so the inference Castiel’s making about Sam telling his big brother of some kind of altercation, doesn’t seem to ring true.

However, after a moment, Dean nods at Sam, jaw set.

Castiel recognizes that look. He’s seen it in relation to both Balthazar and Crowley.

Shit.

He could  _ and should _ say something, but  _ what _ ?

  
  


***

  
  


That night as he’s straddling Dean’s lap, riding his dick, breath hacked into choppy pants, Castiel isn’t quiet, but he isn’t asking Dean any questions, because that way he’s not going to be hearing any lies. 

Right here, Castiel’s orgasm on the tip of Dean’s cock, there’s no pretense; there’s nothing between them at all but skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, no part of Castiel that Dean isn’t pressed up against, and he can’t even think about anything other than the religious experience that their fucking always leaves him with the impression of (alongside Dean’s fingertips; bruises the only jewellery that Castiel’s ever wanted to wear).

Lube thinning, ass aching, Castiel moans, arches into the grip of Dean’s hand, and it occurs to him that they’re colluding in this shared delusion; one part folie a deux, another part creamy-rich trust as evidenced by the way Castiel always opens up for Dean, so willing, so fucking  _ easy _ .

Dean fucks a lot of words out of Castiel’s throat that night, but none of them are the ones that he really needs to say.

  
  


***

  
  


Cole Trenton and a couple of his followers whose names escape Castiel, don’t turn up to school on Tuesday.

At home, Castiel groans wordlessly as he comes all over himself for the third time in as many hours, Dean’s tongue in his ass, sloppy and pink. A few seconds later, Dean’s sliding back inside him, thick cock filling him, easy as anything and Castiel’s hands are trembling, legs a jellied mess.

“ _ Dean _ .”

It’s the first time since he got through the door that he’s been able to vocalize a single thought.

  
  


***

  
  


Wednesday, Dean catches Castiel at the end of class. Snarls against Castiel’s ear as he crushes him to the blackboard. “ _ God _ , one day I'm gonna fuck you over that desk, make you come allover yourself; all you’ll be able to think about in every class is my cock.”

It’s hot, of fucking course it is; it’s Dean and he doesn’t know how not to drive Castiel to distraction, but Castiel eventually manages to choke out a response, despite his traitorous dick already being far too eager, “Don't you think we’ve got ourselves in enough trouble?”

“Not nearly enough.”

  
  


***

  
  


It’s Thursday when Trenton and co. finally turn up again. And they bear the bruises that Castiel had been expecting - but not wanting - to see; violet-primrose bloom, but not nearly so damn pretty. 

There’s a part of Castiel that feels bizarrely jealous that Dean put bruises on someone else. Mostly though, he just feels sick.

That night, Dean fucks Castiel’s words down his throat, dark-eyed want and vicious lust. Castiel holds them there, along with the warmth of Dean’s semen; thick, salty and bitter.

  
  


***

 

Gabriel phones on Friday night when all three of the Winchesters are out hunting and Castiel is at home, not really enjoying being alone with his thoughts, but that’s because his thoughts are about Dean and the man himself isn’t here to distract Castiel from them. Gabriel demands that Castiel come out to party. Castiel declines politely, but a mere hour and two big glasses of wine later he’s getting another call from his brother.

“Castiel?!”

He pauses, mid-sip of wine, “Gabriel, are you drunk?”

“Maybe a little,” Gabriel slurs. Someone at the other ends shouts as Gabe no doubt treads on their foot or bumps into them. “Sorry, friend!”

Castiel sighs, but it’s soft and fond. “Gabe--”

“No. Shush. Listen to me.” The noise fades a little. “I’m outside now, so we can talk privately.” He hush-whispers. “Now, you know how I’ve always thought you’re with the wrong Winchester.”

It’s true. After having met John once, Gabriel had told him to ‘get in on that’.

Still, Gabriel’s drunk and Castiel’s in a mood, so he says, “I think Sam’s a little young for me, Gabe. Pretty sure there’s laws about that kinda thing.”

“Funny.” Gabe snorts. “Nah, I’m talking about daddy Winchester. Looks like you missed out little bro.”

Castiel sits up, scrambles for the controller to mute the TV. “Huh?”

“Well. He’s here.” Gabriel says like Castiel’s being deliberately obtuse. “Inside. At this club I’m at. Dancing with some pretty blonde thing.”

Castiel isn’t sure why this information is so jarring. Beyond the obvious that John should be camping in the wilderness with his two teenage sons, if Dean is to be believed.

“Why are you telling me this, Gabe?” Castiel asks, all traces of humor gone.

“I’m not sure.” Gabriel murmurs distractedly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Yeah, that sounds fucking familiar.

“Are you sure it’s definitely John Winchester?”

“Yep.” Gabriel answers quickly. Too quickly. “I’d remember  _ that _ face anywhere.”

The insinuation is clear. Which just, no.

“Okay.” Castiel says, and then adds to reassure Gabriel, “Looks like I’ve missed my chance then. I’ll just have to stick with his  _ fit, stupidly attractive eighteen-year-old son _ . Woe is me.”

“Psht. That kid is trouble. You know it, I know it. Don’t come crying to me when you realize his cock isn’t all that.”

“Sorry to tell you Gabe, but that’s not gonna be happening any time soon. It’s pretty spectacular.”

“Ugh. Stop thinking about his cock. You’re disgusting. Can’t even believe we’re related.” And with that, he’s hanging up.

Five minutes later, just as Castiel’s laptop is  _ finally _ booting up, he receives a blurry picture of what indeed looks to be John Winchester, fawning over a slim blonde, followed by a stream of heart-eyed emojis.

Yeah, this is the kind of thing that Castiel’s been waiting for.

The remainder of his night is sucked up with research, until it’s almost four am, and his head is so full of shit that he never wanted to know, but definitely needed to, that he’s not even sure he’ll be able to sleep between now and when Dean gets back.

  
  


***

 

He spends all of Saturday mulling over what to say. Wishes that he wasn’t an English Lit teacher so that he’d have some excuse as to why this is so fucking hard. His entire career has been built on the words of others, but now that it’s come time for him to find some of his own, he’s at a loss.

  
  


***

  
  


Sunday evening finally rolls around again, and Castiel doesn’t have enough to charge Dean with, barely enough to bring him in for questioning, but he’s determined to give it a go anyways. 

He can’t do it anymore. Can’t keep quiet. He’s gonna burst at the fucking seams.

So he barely waits until Dean’s inside his house, stolen key in hand, before he’s blurting, “When were you going to tell me that your dad died almost four years ago?”

Static silence. Dead air.

Castiel’s on the verge of hysteria, mouth open wide for Dean, just not in the way that it usually is, and Dean shoves past him like if he doesn’t leave  _ right fucking now, _ he’ll end up breaking something.

_ Someone _ .

 

 

Turns out, words weren’t needed for Castiel to discover that Dean’s a fucking liar (a much better one than him, apparently).

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, once again, sorry for the wait. Bit of a hectic time atm. 
> 
> I promise that I'm not ignoring all of your comments, it's just that some of you are close to the mark of where this is going (one of you in particular seems to have it damn near entirely sussed!) and I'm terrible at keeping secrets, so I deliberately haven't answered comments, because I just know I'll give something away (like I probably just have).
> 
> That said, they are seriously appreciated, so thank you so much! Honestly, they really do help.
> 
> Those of you asking about a happy ending? Well, it depends on whose perspective you're looking at it from? Also, for those of you concerned about Dean cheating on Cas; he hasn't been, so I hope that eases some anxiety!
> 
> The song referenced in this chapter is 'Where did you sleep last night?' originally by Lead Belly and covered by a few artists, most notably, Nirvana.
> 
> Finally, there is some dubcon in this chapter, so please be warned.

Brain stuck on midnight static, Castiel stumbles his way from the lounge to the kitchen, stick-release of his bare feet on the hardwood floor. He’s still mildly buzzing from Gabriel’s weird-ass alcoholic concoctions, even hours and a short nap later, and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

He’d phoned in sick this morning, told the school’s secretary that he wouldn’t be making it in for at least a couple of days, reassured her that yes he’s fine (he’s not), no, it won’t require a trip to the hospital (maybe a mental hospital) and that he’ll be back as soon as he was no longer sick (which may take a while, because there’s no doubt that Castiel’s form of sickness is more to do with depravity than a stomach bug).

Perversion aside, Castiel actually hadn’t been feeling all that well this morning - a result of staying the night at Gabriel’s and drinking his liquor cabinet dry - so it wasn’t a complete lie. Certainly not on the grand scale of Dean’s, at least. Neither was the one where he couched his distress in loose Balthazar terms and left it at that.

But still. Lies nonetheless.

He’s beginning to see how they can stack up without any real malice behind them. Which is a dangerous road to travel; understanding is one step away from forgiveness, and forgiveness… Well forgiveness means things going back to normal and Dean’s lies - understandable as they may be once (if?) Castiel gets an explanation - should not be forgiven. Not easily at least.

Castiel doesn’t like to think himself as weak, but there’s no denying that when it comes to Dean, he’s less steel and more aluminium foil.

He gulps down a full glass of water, smacks his lips together noisily and then refills from the faucet.

Because of the angle of his path from the lounge to the kitchen, he hadn’t seen the shape of someone sitting at the head of the dining table. However, on the way back, it can’t be missed and the shatter of the glass that leaves his grip is horrifyingly loud in the dead silence. Shards skitter out all around him, glimmering in the low light, tiny barbed weapons that vastly reduce his routes of escape.

Dean rises to his feet, “Hey, Cas.”

Heart thumping against his ribcage, Castiel can barely catch his breath. He stares at Dean in the semi-darkness of the dining room, soft spikes of his hair and the classical handsome-almost-prettiness of his features highlighted in sharp relief by the streetlights outside.

Dean moves around the table towards him, all masculine grace that Castiel has become well acquainted with over the last few months, hands up in a gesture of surrender that Castiel isn’t stupid enough to take at face value for a second. Dean’s boots crunch slowly, deliberately, menacingly over the glass.

He stops a foot or so away from Castiel. Still within touching distance, but deliberately not. Not-quite-but-almost looming over him, unrepentant and astoundingly beautiful.

“You disappeared yesterday after I left and then you weren’t at school today.” Dean says, accusatory, but playing it cool. Killing him softly. “Where were you? Where did you sleep last night?”

Castiel is reminded of that Nirvana cover of a song from the forties.

_ ‘His head was found in a driving wheel _

_ But his body never was found…’ _

Yeah, not helpful.

“Gabriel’s.” Castiel replies, voice cracking a little, scratchy from disuse. There are an infinite number of things that he should be worried about at the moment, but the one that his mind seems stuck on is that this feels like how it was supposed to end all along; a nagging sense of inevitability. “I was at Gabriel’s. Last night and today. I got a taxi back a few hours ago.”

Dean nods, apparently satisfied. Like Castiel just confirmed something that he already knew. For an endless minute, they stand there, sweat pricking at Castiel’s hairline, alternately hot and cold, Dean breathing calm and measured.

“Tell me what it’ll take to make you love me again.” Dean says gentle and placating. As if Castiel is the volatile one here.

It feels like being stitched back together after being torn apart at the seams.

“I do still love you,” Castiel mutters, not quite bitter about it, but bordering resentful, “That’s the problem.”

The words hang. Dean sucks a breath, pained. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“Me too.” Castiel replies, honestly.

Dean sighs then, runs a hand through the mussed waves of his hair. “The dude you met who I called our dad... His name’s Caleb, okay? He's a family friend. He knew my dad, and I asked him to come around sometimes, for appearances, make it seem like we’re not just a couple of teenagers rattling around a house unsupervised.” Dean pauses for breath, looks at Castiel. “They tried to take us both into care when dad died. There was no way I was gonna let Sammy be adopted. So we hauled ass outta there. Been running ever since.”

It could be the truth, it might not be. But Castiel knows how this is gonna go, regardless. He’s broken one rule that cracks all the others. He’s let Dean get away with so much; escalation of commitment and all that. It can only end in one of two ways.

Doesn’t mean that Castiel isn’t going to do his best to carve out a third option, “Where the fuck do you go? When you said you were going hunting?”

Dean hesitates, and Castiel can see the internal conflict from here. Eventually, he smiles, small and sheepish. “I’ve been working on something for you, actually. Sam’s been helping me.”

Huh.

“What is it?”

“Now, if I told you that it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Fine.

“ _ Where _ do you go then?”

Dean looks at him strangely. “Does it matter?”

No, Castiel supposes that it doesn't.

“Dean, I--”

“Cas.” Dean goes to move towards him, thinks better of it. “I love you.”

All Castiel wants to do is tuck those words right up against his heart and forget about this whole sorry mess, but he  _ can’t. _ He just can’t.

“Crowley?”

Dean looks away, swallows hard. “I may have roughed him up a little--”

“Define a little.”

“Cas--” 

Castiel licks his parched lips. Some more water would help, but he can’t move. Rooted to the spot. “Was it--Did you--Did you hurt him because he touched me?”

Dean looks at him then, eyes dark and bottomless, dead language used to communicate what can’t be said aloud. By the time he does finally speak, his voice has dropped several octaves into the fifth circle of hell, all fire and brimstone, and despite the heat, Castiel can’t help but shiver. “He touched you?”

Oh fuck.

“Just on my neck...” Castiel offers, though it's weak at best.

“Fuck!” Dean explodes in a fury of flailing limbs, fist punching the partition wall, smear of blood left behind, shiny black in the almost-darkness. A framed picture of Castiel and Gabe taken during a trip to the Botanic Gardens falls and shatters, adding to the mess on the floor. Castiel startles, every fiber of his being wanting to shrink back,  _ away _ , but there’s a stronger force keeping him so still that it’s a constant shock every time his lungs expand with inhaled air. “And you didn't tell me this because…?”

_ ‘Because you clearly have a screw loose’ _ isn’t the answer that Castiel wants to go with for 300 dollars, but it’s the only one that he has, so instead he shrugs.

“Cas?” Grating crunch as Dean finally moves that one step closer and that’s it. Castiel slams up hard against the limit of what he can take from this night, from  _ Dean _ . He backs up, one step, then another, ball to heel.

“Cas.” Dean says darkly, moving in time with Castiel; a tuneless danse macabre. A shard of glass slices into the edge of Castiel’s right foot, but he barely even notices. The air is thick and fraught with potential. For what, Castiel isn’t quite sure – whether it’s sex or violence – but either way he isn’t sticking around to find out.

He whirls away from Dean, and runs, all panicked home invasion and horror-movie-stupid decisions. Behind him, he hears a loud expletive as he bolts through the kitchen and out into the hallway, under the stairs, but he doesn’t dare slow down.

What the fuck he’s going to do when he reaches the front door, upstairs,  _ wherever _ , he doesn’t know, but he just can’t be around Dean right now, can’t look at him, can’t smell him. He’ll cave, he knows he will.

Dean isn’t the team’s running back, but it seems like he could’ve been, because he’s a fast fucker - too fast - and he catches up to Castiel in the lounge; shoving him face first against the wall, head rebounding with a sickening crack and it makes his ears ring, like the church bells he heard back in that tiny town. Instead it’s not Crowley they’re tolling for this time, it’s Castiel.

It’s all his fault. He should have stopped this when he had the chance.

But, did he ever really have the chance?

Dean runs his hands over Castiel's body, telegraphing desperation with every move. “Cas, Cas baby, talk to me,” it's less sweet than dirty, something jagged that threatens to cut Castiel to ribbons, “Are you okay? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just seizes the gap in Dean’s defences to bring his freed elbow up to jab Dean in the gut.

Dean grunts, a harsh exhalation of air, but he isn’t dislodged, too urgent and hyper-focussed on Castiel. “I know this is hard for you.” He breathes into Castiel’s ear, winded and panting, a perverse take on the take-my-breath-away of harlequin romance, “So I’m going to make it easy, okay?”

Castiel sure as shit isn’t gonna abide by the same terms, and he thrashes some more under the crush of Dean’s body. He’ll fucking crawl away if he has to.

“Stop fighting me, Cas. Please baby, c’mon.”

Tears standing in his eyes, Castiel laughs, but it’s cracked in the middle. “Fuck you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, quieter now, hurt.

Castiel kicks out into empty air and is rewarded with a violent shove of bulk and muscle; ends up with his left cheek pressed against the cool wall, feet knocked apart, panting heavily. He lets himself go limp, barely holding himself upright.

Dean makes an approving noise as he buries his face in the back of Castiel’s neck, nose bumping between Castiel’s shoulder blades, inhaling deep.

“What do you want from me, Dean?” Castiel asks flatly, bone-tired of subjugating to the whims and egos of men who he thought were better than they turned out to be.

“Everything, Cas.” Dean says, pressing a kiss beneath his ear, faint thrum of desire catching Castiel, quick and ruthless, despite himself, an unbroken line down his spine. “I fucking love you, man. Never felt this way about anyone before.”

If Castiel could breathe properly, he’d shout, but the only neighbor who’d likely be able to hear him is the one behind him right now. “Dean--”

“I mean it, Cas. I’m sorry I lied about my dad, but I’ve explained that.”

He has. Whether it’s the truth or not is anyone’s guess, but it does kind of make sense and that only annoys Castiel further, red hot itch under his skin at the thought of one thing in amongst all of these lies might turn out to be the bizarre truth.

“Did you hurt Balthazar?”

“Fuck.” Dean’s forehead drops against Castiel’s shoulder, breath hot and shaky even through the fabric of Castile’s shirt. “He wouldn’t let you have the house. I just wanted him to-- He hurt you, Cas. I wanted him to hurt too. The only thing that he cares about is money.”

It’s fucked up, it really is - and Castiel couldn’t even begin to deny it - but the dreamy still-in-love-with-the-idea-of-Dean side of him thinks it’s sweet too. It’s Dean’s version of romance and it’s not like Castiel can suddenly start looking down on it now; after all, he’s definitely been enjoying other aspects.

“God,” he chokes thickly, emotion rising like bile. “Dean. You can’t just-- you can’t.”

“But I can, Cas. When it comes to you, I can.”

There’s a long catch of a moment. Castiel doesn’t move, mentally prepares himself for his own surrender that Dean has fought hard for.

“Let me love you. Come on baby, Cas, I'll make you feel so good. You know I will.”

That’s both the problem and not. Dean’s love and attention has validated Castiel’s existence lately and pretending otherwise is to tell a lie so transparent that it’s not even worth thinking, let alone voicing.

“I know.” Castiel says, a quiet admission of his own guilt in this whole fucking thing.

Dean seems surprised; not expecting Castiel to give in to it so wholly and honestly. “What’s the problem, then?”

It’s an excellent question; one that Castiel doesn’t have a satisfying answer to. If he could just not think and instead only feel, then this would be so much easier.

That’s always been his issue.

Apparently sensing what Castiel isn’t voicing, Dean yanks himself together to be what Castiel needs - what they both need - and says deep and fire-scented, “Show me where he touched you.”

Hands-free and trembling, Castiel’s fingers slide around to the nape of his neck. “Here.”

“I'm gonna make you forget that that creep ever got to breathe the same air as you.” It’s both a threat and a promise and Castiel can’t even pretend to himself that he doesn’t want it as bad as he wants his next breath.

This is what it comes down to with them. Always will.

Behind him, the sound of a belt buckle and a zipper coming apart, the rustle of clothes being discarded. Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t think, just waits, holds his breath, ignores the tell-tale heart throb of his dick in his sweats. Tries hard not to hate himself for it.

Dean is muttering obscenities, mouthing praise and voicing dirty thoughts into Castiel’s skin, as he strips them both, until Castiel is shivering naked in his front room, and not just from the cold. A heartbeat later, Dean’s plastering himself to Castiel’s back, bodies molded together, skin on skin, hot heavy weight of him crushing Castiel to the wall again.

Dean’s cock is hard, branding iron-hot against the naked flesh of Castiel’s ass. His own dick is traitorously hard too; slut-red and aching. He whines as Dean adjusts himself to get a hand between their bodies, cupping Castiel’s ass cheek, palm warm and smooth, fingers callused.

“Don’t.” Castiel says, as one of Dean’s newly spit-coated fingers pushes into the cleft, teasing around the edges of Castiel’s hole, “Just do it. Get it over with.”

It’s going to hurt like hell, but he’s long past the point of caring/no return. If this causes him physical pain, instead of just emotional, maybe he’ll learn to trust himself better. Maybe it’ll get his misbehaving heart to finally understand.

“That what you want?” Dean asks, lips to Castiel’s ear, venomous, “You want this to be over?”  

_ God yes _ and  _ fuck no _ .

Dean takes Castiel’s silence for what it is, dick trailing wetly over Castiel’s hole, smearing precome, and then he’s pushing inside, sliding bare right up into the center of him, stretching him open, white-hot pain and mind-numbing pleasure blurring together, and Castiel has no choice but to shape himself around Dean.

“Fuck.” Dean groans, dragging himself out of Castiel’s body, forcing himself back in, making Castiel’s eyes water with self-inflicted-by-proxy pain. Dean slows enough to spit down between where their bodies are joined, filthy-wet, and it eases the way some, but not nearly enough to make the fucking he’s giving Castiel anything other than sweet agony.

Dean is inside him completely, sheathed to the hilt in Castiel’s ass. “Nobody’s hands but mine.” He tells Castiel, pulling out, shoving back in, jarring Castiel’s bones. It hurts, fuck, it hurts so good. “Nobody but me.” His hips punch fast and hard, nailing Castiel with every in and out, “Want that, Cas? Want my hands on you?” Dean continues, breathing erratic, “Only my hands, No one else’s?”

“Yeah.” Castiel’s head drops back onto Dean’s shoulder, as Dean spears him on his cock again. “Just your hands, Dean.  _ Fuck _ .” He has no idea what he’s saying, only that it’s hot as hell and making Dean fuck him harder and faster, flattening him against the wall, dick trapped and smearing precome over the coat of paint that he’d spent so long on after Balthazar left. Like it fucking mattered that the walls were a different color.

A sick laugh bubbles up from somewhere near his diaphragm, but gets stuck in his throat, despite Dean’s best efforts to fuck it out of him. His orgasm is already creeping up his spine, and he can sense that Dean isn’t far behind; thrusts growing uneven, hips churning frantically as he whispers nothing but filth in Castiel’s ear, hands all over Castiel’s body, like he wants to own him inside and out and it’s so wrong, so fucking wrong that Castiel can’t help but be taken over by the urge to meet Dean’s insanity with his own, messy pleas falling from his bitten lips, “Please, Dean. Pleasepleaseplease.”

He arches his back more, mouth running without his permission, palms braced against the wall, gaining enough traction, enough leverage to meet Dean, filthy-hot slap of skin against skin.

“You want it?” Dean rasps, fingertips sinking into the flesh of Castiel’s ass like he’s searching for bone.

“Yes, yes yes.” Castiel begs, breath hitching on one thrust, before catching a ride on the next. “Need it, Dean.  _ Please _ .” He hooks an arm back around Dean’s neck, kissing him messily, all spit and tongue as he comes, spurting over the wall, raw-edge of pleasure and clench of muscle agonizing as his balls draw up tight, not a hand on his dick.

Dean makes a wild noise in the back of his throat,  “ _ Cas _ ,” and slams in, stills and pulses, fucks his way through both of their orgasms in a tight grind, fucking his seed deep inside Castiel’s body. “Jesus.”

They’re both breathing hard and fast, twitching through the aftershocks. There’s a dull rumble of a car on the street outside.

When Dean’s soft enough to pull out, he does, dribble of come tickling down the back of Castiel’s thigh. Castiel doesn’t turn around as he hears Dean shuffling behind him, unsure of what to say.

It’s his fault. Always has been. He never should have given in. Should have been stronger.

After several long moments, Dean returns, bringing warmth that Castiel absolutely does not want to give in to. Hand gentle on Castiel’s shoulder, Dean guides Castiel into turning around, so that they’re facing each other, forearm to forearm, heat bleeding from one to another. “Cas,” Dean whispers as Castiel jerks his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see, and Dean grabs him by the chin, turns him back to look. “ _ Cas. _ ”

Castiel finally opens his eyes, setting his jaw.

Dean’s eyelashes dip, soft and sweeping, but his mouth his firm. “Are you gonna stay with me? Or are you gonna run again?”

“Not gonna run.” Castiel mumbles, tries to keep his face impassive. They’re both still naked and that really should be rectified immediately, or this conversation is going to jump off the tracks again.

“I really wanna believe you Cas, I do.” Dean strokes his thumb across Castiel’s swollen bottom lip, “But I just love you so fucking much. I can't take the risk.” He looks contrite, but his words aren’t making a whole lot of sense.

Before Castiel can open his mouth to say as much, Dean’s shifting, free arm peeling away from Castiel’s, and then there's a sharp scratch at his neck, a sort of pinching pain, kinda like a bee sting, and then the world is waning out of sight, quivering and fluttering, possessive shade of green the last color he sees before he’s pulled under into complete darkness.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending was originally going to be a lot more sinister, with an MCD, but instead everyone is alive, but probably wishing they weren't. Hooray for happy(?) endings!
> 
> (Also, apologies for the wait!)

Castiel’s struggle back to consciousness feels like a prize fight with someone out of his weight class; like he’s battered and bruised, ribs cracked wide open in a way that makes every gritty inhale feel like there’s a ten-ton weight on his chest. 

When he forces his eyes open, eyelashes fluttering, vision still swimming, the first thing that he registers is a muted gray concrete ceiling. 

What the-- Did he pass out in Gabriel’s garage? They were drinking a lot and--

Oh fuck. 

Dean.

He twists his head to the side on the pile of overly fluffy pillows (definitely not Gabriel’s garage then), ignores the dizzy sensation at the backs of his eyes, looks around. No windows, no artwork, nothing, just bare, military-gray walls. The door beyond the foot of the bed is closed tight. 

On the oak nightstand next to the edge of the bed is what looks to be his annotated copy of Blake poems; dog-eared and spine cracked. It’s open, face-down; a shitty way of bookmarking the page. 

Mind racing in competition with his heart, Castiel tries to sit up. He needs to get the fuck out of wherever the hell he is. Some kind of doomsday prepper fallout shelter. There’s probably tins of corn stacked somewhere. 

Any kind of movement involving his limbs proves to be trickier than Castiel had anticipated. Partly because his vision blurs every time he tries to move even a little too fast, but mostly because his hands and feet are bound. Not quite prison-style leg shackles that are linked to handcuffed wrists, but there’s thin nylon rope wrapped intricately around his wrists, tight enough that a quick attempt to twist his hands results in nothing but a painful burn and a step closer towards a panic attack.

His feet aren’t secured in the same way. Silver handcuffs encircle both his ankles, with the one on his left leg including a metal plate thing, presumably to protect the keyhole from being tampered with; leg irons that will severely hinder any movement, any _ escape _ .

A prisoner. He’s a fucking prisoner.

Oh fuck.

Holding his bound hands out in front of him, he digs his heels into the ultra-soft bedspread (memory foam mattress?), scoots on his ass across the luxurious queen bed, which seems totally out of place in this minimalist environment. 

To his left, the door yawns open, scraping dully over the concrete floor and Castiel swings his head in that direction, vision sparking fire, dull throbbing ache starting at the base of his skull.

“Sam,” he breathes, relief so thick that it nearly chokes him. “Sam, you gotta help me,” His bare toes touch the cool floor. He shuffles another inch, two, until he’s able to get both feet firmly touching grainy ground.

Sam’s leaning against the door frame, noisily chewing an apple, looking more like his older brother in that moment, than Castiel has ever seen him. “Pretty sure I don’t ‘gotta’ do anything, Mr Novak.”

Castiel’s heart stops. 

The silence that he’s only just noticed - no cars, no noise of traffic, no people; complete isolation - only gets louder with every stuttered inhale of breath he tries to take.

“What?”

“You know,” Sam starts, bites into the apple, chews for a second. “You’re different.” Swallows his mouthful. “He usually just finds, fucks and kills. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or jealous.”

Castiel’s brain seems to short circuit; fritzing like an old TV. 

Did he hear that right? He can’t have heard that right. He gets to his feet, shaky and unfocused. He’s shirtless, but thankfully wearing the same pair of sweatpants that he had been when Dean accosted him at home (at least Dean was kind enough to partially redress him, though it’s doubtful he was thinking of Castiel’s modesty, more his own possessiveness, but still). Some of the material falls a little as he stands, bunching up over the cuffs around his ankles. 

Sam continues eating his apple, watching Castiel carefully, quietly menacing, despite the puppy-fat roundness of his cheeks. He's just a kid. A kid with a fucked up brother who roped him into this, because he's all Sam has. Castiel tries again, “Sam, please--”

“Don’t you get it?” Sam smiles, dimples popping, eyes alight with savage glee, fevered and bright. “The whole doe-eyed Bambi routine? ‘ _ I’m so bullied at school, wah. _ ’ Please.” He crosses the barren room, Vans scuffing over the floor, frayed laces trailing behind. He drops the core into the wastepaper basket on the other side of the nightstand. “All to persuade you that Dean is  _ such _ a good big brother.” This time when he smiles it’s fleeting and there’s an undercurrent to it; shadows too dark for a fourteen year old. “Which he is, just not in the way that you’d think.”

Nausea burns thick in the back of Castiel’s throat. He shallows his breathing, but it doesn’t help the helplessness currently ensconcing him, slow as molasses. 

What can he do? He can barely walk, let alone run. 

“Where --” He stops, clear his throat, tries again. Gives himself a moment as Sam retakes his position in the doorway; his stand-in jailer. “Where’s Dean?”

“At school.” 

What the fuck?

“Why?”

“People don’t give my brother enough credit.” Sam says, apropos of absolutely nothing, “Sure he’s pretty, but he’s also smart.”

Castiel knows this. Has always known this. 

Sam considers him. Then says, “Dean’s at school because he’s gotta be for now. You don’t think he just took you without a plan, now did you?”

As a matter of fact…

“He didn’t.” Sam asserts, reading Castiel’s mind with eerie accuracy. “He’s been planning this for a while. Crowley, Balthazar, it’ll all make sense soon enough.”

“Tell me.” Castiel isn’t going anywhere for some time. And he knows the Winchesters. Maybe not as well as he thought he did, but he’s relatively confident that Dean wouldn’t be going to all this trouble just to torture him and bury him in the woods in the middle of nowhere.

Relatively.

“It’s Dean story to tell.” Sam looks him up and down appraisingly. Castiel feels more exposed and instinctively tries to make himself smaller. “But I guess I can give you the cliffnotes.”

  
  


***

  
  


The cliffnotes version turns out to be more of a villain’s soliloquy, like Sam has struggled to keep all these secrets locked inside for some time, and Castiel finds himself idly wondering just how many others have been taken in by the brothers’ disturbing facade, because now he’s seen the psychosis, he can’t unsee it, wonders how he ever missed it. 

Though, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need that one spelled out for him. 

“You --” Castiel’s throat is dry, interrupting though he isn’t sure whether it’s a good idea. “You said that I was different?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s eyes dull a little, posture slumping against the frame. Beyond him, the hallway is tiled in varying shades of gray and brown. “Yeah, you are. Dean  _ likes  _ you.” He spits it out like it’s something disgusting. Poison, a weakness. “He killed dad, y’know.” he adds it casually, but there’s a hint of possessiveness in his tone, hovering somewhere between pride and envy; too many deadly sins for one kid. “He’d do anything for me. So I figured I could let him have this,  _ you _ .”

The way he talks about Castiel. Ownership of another human being like he’s letting Dean spoil himself with a new exhaust for his car. A fun treat. A plaything. 

Is that what this is all about? Dean wants Castiel to stay with him -- this way, he’ll never be going anywhere ever again. And Balthazar and Crowley will be the ones taking the fall for it.

Because like Sam had said, Dean is far from stupid. It’s just a shame that Castiel is. The strategically placed bruises, the money Balthazar transferred to Crowley, Crowley’s sudden disappearance. It all makes sense when Sam points him in the general direction and gives him a compass so that he can play join the dots with the stars. 

“I wanna go to college. Study law.” Sam says conversationally, as if he hasn’t just explained how he and his older brother travel the country murdering innocents. “So I’ve looked into all this stuff. They’ll never find your body, but there’ll be enough to tie Balthazar and Crowley to your murder. Then eventually, you’ll be declared dead  _ in absentia _ \- which is kinda funny don’t you think? That someone can be dead and absent? Surely one cancels out the other and --” Castiel stops listening, can’t bear to hear all over again how badly he fucked this up.

“When is Dean getting back?” He asks, partly out of genuine curiosity, partly just to fuck with Sam and his clear enjoyment of this situation. He sits back down on the bed, exhausted. Discovering just how psychotic your boyfriend is really takes it out of you.

Sam’s expression is unreadable as he pulls his cellphone out of his back pocket. Castiel watches as he swipes a finger across the screen, finds himself wondering if there’s any cell reception where they are. There must be, otherwise why would Sam have a phone?

“Soon.” Sam says, phone sliding back into his jeans. “You know, you should be grateful.”

Castiel nearly chokes on his own indignation. “What?”

“Dean spent ages working on this for you. Making it liveable. It wasn’t in great shape when we found it. He wanted to make it a home for you.”

Oh Christ. This is some kind of Misery shit, isn’t it? Except there’s no rewritten ending that Castiel can offer.

Sam’s phone dings with a text. Which answers one question, but raises several more.

A second thought eclipses that initial terrifying one; Is this where Dean disappeared to when he was ‘hunting’? Or was he actually hunting, just not animals? With the man who wasn’t actually his dad? Because Dean killed their dad like Sam said? Or…? Wait. Didn’t Dean say that he was working on something for Cas? This place is it? Jesus fuck, Castiel could drive himself mad with this.

“Well, he’s done a shit job.” Castiel mutters eventually, more to himself than Sam. Who isn’t even actually there anymore; just nothing replacing him, like Castiel attempting to escape didn’t even occur to him. He calls out after him, a bit louder. “Not a big fan of the gray.”

“Noted.” A familiar deep voice says. “Figured you’d be sick of green.” And then the voice is followed by the person it belongs to.

Dean. In all his ghastly, beautiful glory. 

It’s like the garage incident all over again and Castiel’s stupid stupid lovesick heart beats faster against his ribcage, all fluttering wings and baby’s breath. 

“Pretty much.” Castiel murmurs. Green and caramel, specifically. 

Dean’s carrying what looks and smells like take-out, crumpled paper and grease, and Castiel’s mouth waters. He has no idea what time it is, can’t even remember when he last ate.

“I brought food.” Dean grins, bright and beautiful, as if Castiel isn’t chained and contained in some kind of concrete prison. He sits down on the bed, weight sinking the mattress and forcing Castiel to lean in closer. 

He still smells the same. Still looks the same. Nothing’s changed. Castiel was always Dean’s prisoner, just not as transparently as this.

“Dean.” Castiel says, softly, nervous to reach out, despite the better (or worse) part of him desperate to. “Dean, please let me go.”

Dean shrugs out of his letterman jacket, drapes it around Castiel’s naked shoulders. “I told Sam to make sure that the heat was turned on full blast. Fuck’s sake.” 

“Dean.” Castiel repeats, a time-delayed echo of himself, ignoring the comforting scent of the jacket he’s worn so many times before, sugar sweet tainted now with the bitter taste of reality. “Let me go.”

Dean rips through the paper of a burger, goes to hand it to Castiel, frowns when he sees his bound wrists and then places it on his lap. Sighing, he opens a lock-blade knife and with a move borne of repetition, slices it clean through the nylon, barely giving Castiel a second to catch up with what’s happening, folding it back into his pocket. “Here.” He picks the burger up again and shoves it into Castiel’s newly freed hands. 

How many lives has that knife taken with less care? 

How many would it take for his heart to give enough of a fuck to not simply wish that things would go back to how they were before Dean kidnapped him? Because that’s not the same as wishing that Dean and Sam aren’t what they are. It’s wishing to remain blissfully ignorant. And that frightens Castiel more than anything Dean could ever do. 

Which in itself is scary as fuck and has Castiel teetering on the edge of an existential crisis, even as the lukewarm burger heats his palms.

Castiel’s starving hungry. 

But he’s also scared, a little turned on (unavoidable, given the present company), mostly angry as fuck. 

How could Dean do this to him? Yeah, he’s always been a possessive bastard, but this takes the fucking cake. Forgetting the alleged murders for just one second - which is surprisingly easy to do under the circumstances - Castiel focuses on how Dean had promised that he wouldn’t hurt him again. How he loved him so much.

Which, unless they have two very different versions of love, is not this.

Between one second and the next, he’s tossing the untouched burger to the comforter and throwing a roughly aimed punch in Dean’s direction. 

Dean moves as if he was expecting it, waiting for it, and catches Castiel’s fist easily, kisses Castiel’s knuckles like Castiel hadn’t just imagined them embedded in his pretty pretty face, and then finally looks up at him, all caterpillar lashes and cinnamon sprinkles.

“Cas.” He whispers the one syllable like a benediction, every inch the adoring lover who recites poetry and cooks pancakes and eats Castiel out until he’s crying. 

It’s hard to reconcile that Dean with the one who drugged and kidnapped him. But somehow he has to. Has to otherwise he’ll end up staying here because it just makes sense and not because Dean stole him like a fucking television set. Or a lamp.

“The police have arrested Balthazar.” Dean says, releasing Castiel’s hand and bringing the straw of the drink to his pink mouth instead, taking a sip. He offers it to Castiel, who shakes his head no, despite his lips being cracked and dry, throat parched. “They’ve traced the transaction of a million dollars to the bank account of Fergus Crowley. Money for a hit - supposedly - after his estranged husband asked, no _demanded_ , the house and alimony.” He places the drink on the concrete floor between them, unwraps his own burger, takes a bite. Chews and swallows. “This is of course, the same Fergus Crowley who disappeared without a trace after coming into some kind of ‘inheritance.’” 

Castiel makes a small strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Another bite. “Of course, Ms. Milton was more than happy to provide police with the details about the bruises she saw on you and how you’d brushed them off as some kind of home improvement accident.” Dean smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Castiel shivers despite the warmth of Dean’s jacket. Or maybe in spite of it. “Gabriel informed everyone that you were going through a divorce. The cops put the rest together. I mean, it’s two plus two equalling three, but it’s the kind of police work I was relying on, so you won’t see me complaining.”

Dean continues, colloquial and easy, “It’s not like your brother is gonna say anything about me either, because y’know? I’m just the teenager you were fucking, right? The teenager who happens to be the all-star quarterback and Lisa Braeden’s date to the winter formal.”

At that, Castiel looks up at Dean, glares. Can’t help the hot lead of jealousy that ricochets around in his gut like a fucking bullet.

Dean’s grinning at him, in that infuriatingly handsome boyish way. “Had to keep up appearances, baby. After all, you’re the one who went to great lengths to make sure that we were never seen together. Needed to make sure that the opposite was true for me and Lisa.”

Castiel closes his eyes in agony. Dean’s right. Separate rides in and out. Sure, Gabriel knows about them, and may have had reservations about Dean, but there’s nothing solid to point the finger at Dean in any way, shape or form. Which Gabriel couldn’t do anyway without seriously calling into question his brother’s character, and really? Despite everything, Gabriel wouldn’t do that unless he thought it completely necessary. And thanks to Dean’s work with Crowley and Balthazar, he almost certainly won’t. Occam's razor and all that.

“How do you know all this?”

“Eyes everywhere.” Dean’s barely holding back a knowing smirk as he pops a fry into his mouth, clearly pleased with himself, the smug asshole.

Eyes everywhere…? Didn’t Crowley... “You fucker.” Castiel breathes, realization dawning. “You absolute bastard.” He’s briefly tempted to take another swing but decides against it. The last time he actually fought Dean he ended up here. Next stop might be some kind of sex dungeon.

“Come on, Cas.” Dean wheedles, all boyish charm and good looks. The cute, rebel-with-a-cause he’s painted himself to be, instead of the disgustingly attractive, psychotic-J.D-from-Heathers that he actually is. “Isn’t this a good thing? It means only four of us have seen those photos and two of us are in ‘em, the third ain’t gonna say anything and the fourth isn’t in any position to.”

“The third? Fourth? Crowley? How do you know he won’t tell?” Castiel asks, more than a little afraid of the answer, but desperately needing to know. “Oh God, you told me you roughed him up, but did you actually kill him?” Not that he’ll miss the bastard, but it will bring this whole ‘Dean-Winchester-and-his-little-brother-Sammy-are-murderers’ thing home for him.

Dean’s dark eyes glitter dangerously in the low light. “Nah, killing him right now isn’t a good idea. But as soon as he ceases to be useful, I’m making no promises. I still haven’t forgotten what you told me, Cas.”

Of course not, because that would be too much to hope for. “Who’s the other one?”

Dean tenses slightly. “Does it matter?”

Yes.

“Yes. Who took the fucking photos, Dean? ‘Cause as you’ve just pointed out, it wasn’t actually Crowley, was it?”

“Cas.” Dean tries again, but Castiel isn’t having any of it.

“You let someone else see me naked, Dean. Must have been someone you trust, right? ‘Cause you’re too possessive to let just anyone see me on my knees, plug up my ass, sucking that beautiful dick of yours.” He’s not above exploiting this situation. It may be his only hope of escape, and whilst he’s pretty sure that Dean isn’t gonna harm him, he’s not  _ completely  _ sure. Dean’s thigh is warm through his jeans where Castiel places his hand. Contact he wouldn’t have thought twice about a couple of days ago. Now, he flicks his eyes up to Dean’s, watching for a reaction.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is thick.

“Tell me, Dean. Come on. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He doesn’t point out exactly why that is, instead decides to follow through with what comes naturally to the both of them. Sex. “You have me completely now. No distractions, right? No other hands but yours.” Castiel’s fingertips draw circles on the denim tightly encasing solid muscle. “You can do whatever you want to me, whenever you want, so what’s the worst that’s gonna happen if you tell me?” He shuffles a little closer, thigh to thigh. “Talk to me, Dean.”

He sees the moment when he gets through to Dean, when he caves. Resolve snapping like a bowstring. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything, okay? But you’ve gotta eat and drink something. Let me take care of you first, then I’ll answer every question you have.”

Castiel removes his hand, sighs. “Sure. What choice do I have?”

Dean’s smile is relieved, but a little pinched around the edges.

  
  


***

 

Several months later.

  
  


“I never wanted this for you, y’know.” Dean murmurs late one night, moist-hot against Castiel’s still thundering pulse. He’s pressed in tight against Castiel’s back, bodies molded together, an endless map of damp skin with nothing between them, and Castiel has grown used to the constant contradictory feelings of safety and the mild disgust with himself that he feels about it. 

Just because he’s used to it, doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

“I wanted you to be mine, because  _ you _ wanted to be.”

“I did.” Castiel says, words out of his mouth unbidden, before he can stop himself. Can’t bring himself to say ‘I do’, though, feels like a commitment coerced, even though nothing of the sort has been true for several months now. He grips Dean’s hand in his, holds it over his heart. “Dean, I loved you. I would have done anything for you.” 

It’s entirely true.

Dean scoffs. “Past tense.”

“Yeah, well kidnapping me and framing my ex for my murder isn’t the way to my heart. Forgive me for not finding that as endearing as you seem to think it is.”

Dean huffs a quiet laugh against the nape of Castiel’s neck, making him shiver. “Tell me what I could have done to make you stay.”

It’s a rare moment of quiet reflection for Dean, so Castiel figures that he owes him a considered, sincere answer. “You should have trusted that I would.”

Dean sounds small and hurt when he says. “You ran from me, Cas. What was I supposed to do?”

Not this. Almost anything but this.

Instead he says, “You were supposed to let me go. Let me come back on my own. I would have.” That’s not a lie either. If Dean had left that night in the house, Castiel's pretty sure that he would have given in. It was never a question of if, just when. 

Or maybe his memory is skewed. He doesn’t actually know anymore. But he’s pretty sure. 

“I told you that I’d never let you go. That this was it for me.”

He’s got Castiel there. He did. 

Silence falls again. Castiel can just about make out a familiar tune drifting in from the radio in the library. No doubt Sam’s staying up late revising for his exams. He’s doing well at his new school, especially in English Lit now that he’s got a personal tutor at ‘home’.

“Could you ever love me again?”

“Dean--”

“Please, Cas.” He sounds so young and innocent, even though they both know that he’s far from it. There aren’t many teenagers that have a body count higher than their age. “Answer me honestly and I’ll think about what you’ve said… About letting you go.”

Castiel feels something like hope rising from the ashes in his chest. But it’s dulled by the knowledge that despite everything, Castiel still craves Dean. Can’t seem to purge the desire for his touch. Can’t be anything other than masochistically in love with the man sharing his bed. It’d be Stockholm Syndrome if it weren’t for the fact that Castiel was in love well before Dean bound him, absolutely smitten long before Dean ever kept him prisoner behind physical walls. 

If Dean had let him go back in the house that night, then Castiel’s pretty sure he would have returned to him, but now? Now he’s certain. What other choice does he have anymore? They’ve stopped looking for him, never really started; just some teacher in some high school who apparently got killed by some moonlighting hitman-teacher hired by some jealous ex. Happens more often than one might be inclined to believe. 

He was never extraordinary to anyone but Dean.

“I think we just have two different versions of love.” Castiel answers honestly. He doesn’t say whether they’re incompatible. Doesn’t have the answer to that. Probably never will.

He’s not quite sure why it makes a difference either way though. He’s here, isn’t he? Isn’t that what Dean wanted? Dean told him once that he would love Castiel until either one of them died, but he never said anything about Castiel having to reciprocate that  _ kind  _ of love. Even if he does now. Because there was a time when his love wasn’t this warped abomination, distorted by a sick kind of dependence that he never thought himself capable of. It’s not love in the truest sense of the word, not to Castiel, even if it is to Dean.

So yeah, he loves Dean. But not in a way that feels anything like something any of his favorite poets would have described. 

There’s a soft, “fuck.” Followed by nothing but the radio again. A slower song this time. Castiel can feel himself drifting to sleep in the safety of Dean’s arms. When he first got here, he found it difficult to sleep; it was too quiet, but now, sleep finds him easily. Especially when Dean’s ‘home.’

He’s just in that perfect place between slumber and wakefulness, teetering on the edge of oblivion, when quietly, so quietly that Castiel can barely hear him, Dean softly speaks, gentle rumble of his voice reverberating down Castiel’s spine, prickling along nerve endings:

“ ‘ Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’

 

So sung a little Clod of Clay

Trodden with the cattle’s feet,

But a Pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

 

‘Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another’s loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven’s despite.’”

 

Castiel has tears in his eyes and wetness on his cheeks by the end of the first stanza. 


End file.
